She’d figured Jasmine wouldn’t even want her help, which was probably true. But Jasmine had needed her help. And Makani had curled up in the sand. Eyes burning, tears streaming. The knife in her right hand, the ponytail in her left.
“The captain was the one who finally noticed and dove in after her. She worked as a lifeguard on a resort, so she immediately started CPR. Jasmine wasn’t breathing.”
Makani shouldn’t have been able to hear the wind shaking the palms or the waves lapping the shore, but the bonfire had burned to smoke and embers, and the other girls had trembled in quiet hysteria. Sirens cut through the silence. Compression and a defibrillator and some kind of alarm, another wail. Or maybe the banshee was only screaming in her head. Petrified, Makani didn’t move throughout the whole ordeal.
“The paramedics arrived and got her breathing again,” she said, wiping her cheeks with her fingers, “and she was okay—suddenly, she was okay—but then she was rushed away to the hospital. And by now, everyone had seen her hair . . . and they’d all seen me with the knife. The police put me in handcuffs.”
They’d ushered her into the back of their car, behind the metal grate, and driven her to the station. She’d taken a Breathalyzer test, and then she’d been photographed, fingerprinted, and questioned. “You’re in a lot of trouble,” an officer said. “We could charge you with public intoxication, and you’re looking at a third-degree assault.”
Makani’s heart had plummeted into the dark sea.
Assault. She’d committed assault. On her best friend.
Even as she confessed the charge now, she couldn’t look anyone in the eye. “The magistrate set the bail, and my parents arrived separately. They were already doing everything separately. But their anger . . . it suffused the entire station.”
“I’m so sorry,” Darby said. “This is all so awful.”
“What about the parents who provided the alcohol?” Ollie asked. It was a question his brother might pose.
“They were charged a while later,” Makani said. “That October was hell in slow motion. The school suspended me for thirty days, and I was kicked off the swim team. I’d always been a part of a team. And then I wasn’t. The guy I’d been dating for over half a year, Jason—he was a diver, too—stopped returning my texts and unfollowed me on every platform. Our breakup was unstated but immediate.”
Alex asked with atypical delicacy, “And Jasmine?”
Makani’s expression gave the answer. Their friendship had died on the beach.
“Around school, her butchered hair couldn’t be ignored,” Makani said. “It looked so cruel. It was so cruel. Because I was a minor, my name wasn’t reported in the media, but that didn’t stop anyone from talking online. It didn’t stop anyone from learning that I have a mug shot with the word bitch on my forehead or that the word nympho was still visible when Jasmine arrived at the hospital. The whole team was shamed, but people saw me as the ringleader.”
“Even though you had a word on your head, too?” Ollie asked.
“They thought mine spoke the truth.” Makani lifted her face to look at him squarely. “I was the one who picked up the knife.”
Thousands of messages from classmates, neighbors, and strangers had focused their outrage on her. There were threats of scalping. Threats of rape. Threats of murder.
Shame on you, the internet said. Why don’t you just kill yourself already? #SwimSluts #KonaGate #CommitSuicideSquad
Makani slept long hours and stirred aimlessly through her house. The barrage was endless. Immeasurable. Sometimes it hurt because everyone had the wrong idea about her, but usually it hurt because it felt like they had it right. She didn’t know what to do or where to be or who to talk to. She kept wanting to call Jasmine—the one person who’d always understood—except she was the exact person Makani had failed.
“I wrote Jasmine this long apology letter. Like, I actually wrote it on paper and mailed it. She never responded, but I wouldn’t have responded to me, either. Meanwhile, my parents hired an attorney who told me that I should never contact Jasmine again. And then I was asked to pay restitution.”
When Makani saw that her friends didn’t know what that meant, she explained, “I was asked to give her money for a professional haircut.” She shook her head. “As if that were anything close to enough.” Makani would have paid any amount they’d asked for. She would have cut off her own hair—she would have cut it off for the rest of her life.
“So, what happened?” Ollie’s hand wasn’t on her back anymore, but his body was close. “Do you still have an assault on your record?”
“No. About a month later, my district attorney dropped the charge, and I got my record expunged.”
“You must have been so relieved,” Darby said.
“Not really. I felt like I deserved it. And then the DA made the mistake of telling a reporter that I was sorry for what I’d done, but ‘one night of fun shouldn’t ruin her life.’ She literally used the phrase ‘kids will be kids.’”
Everyone winced.
“Yep,” she said. “Social media . . . did not like that.”
The public wanted Makani to be punished. They became more furious, more incensed. The violent threats increased. The overreaction was catastrophic.
Ollie’s countenance had taken on a perceptible weight, but it looked heavy with understanding—not judgment. At least, that’s what Makani hoped she was seeing as he asked, “How’d you wind up here? When did your name change?”
“When my school suspension ended,” Makani said, “my classmates . . . the looks they gave me. The things they said. I didn’t even make it to lunch. My dad picked me up from the nurse’s office, and on the ride home, that’s when he told me that he’d filed for divorce. And later that night, that’s when my mom told me they were sending me here.”
Ollie and Darby seemed dumbfounded. Alex swore.
“The DA was the one who suggested that I might have an easier time adjusting if I changed my name to one that wasn’t so easily traceable.”
“Did you want to change it?” Ollie asked.
“I don’t know.” Makani had been so depressed that she’d just let it happen. And there had been some relief from having a new identity. Not much. But some.
Sharing her story now, however, had opened a valve of tremendous internal pressure. Her secret—this self-inflicted burden—had finally been released.
Darby set the doughnut box onto the floor, stood from the love seat, and pulled Makani into a determined bear hug. He wouldn’t release her until she received it and returned it. “I’m sorry that you’ve lived alone with this for so long. I wish you would have told us.”
“You’re not afraid I’m a vicious sociopath? Someone who gets off on other people’s pain?” Makani’s jokes were only half jokes.
Darby pulled back, hands on her shoulders, to examine her. His nose and mouth screwed up in exaggerated concentration. “Nah.”
“I don’t know if you remember this,” Ollie said, “but we’ve actually met a vicious sociopath. And he wasn’t anything like you.”
“Besides,” Alex said, “we already know that pain doesn’t get you off. Ollie does.”