“And how do we know she didn’t have fun?” Christy asks. “Maybe she had too much fun and regretted it in the morning. So she freaked out.”
“It doesn’t look like she’s having much fun in that picture,” Rachel says.
“It was one snapshot,” groans Christy. “For all we know, Stacey posed for that.”
“And then filed charges?” asks Rachel.
Christy seems to ignore this and keeps digging through shoes. As I turn to ask Rachel’s opinion of a butter-yellow princess dress, Lindsey pipes up. “I’m just really confused.”
“It all seems pretty obvious to me,” says Christy. “Stacey’s been trying to get with Dooney all year. Probably threw herself at all those guys when they went downstairs, then changed her mind after she got what she wanted.”
Lindsey frowns, running her finger across the sherbet-colored marabou on the dress draped over her arm. “I don’t think that makes sense.”
“Me neither,” says Rachel. “How do we know those guys didn’t make a pass at her?”
“Whose side are you on?” Chirsty asks. “I mean, Dooney and Deacon are morons, sure. But they’re our morons. They’re not animals.”
“I know, I know,” Rachel says. “It’s just . . . why are we automatically assuming the guys are the ones telling the truth?”
Christy’s eyes go wide. “Excuse me? Did you see the skirt Stacey was wearing at that party? I have washcloths made of more fabric.”
Rachel nods as she heads into the dressing room with a few selections, but her face looks like she caught a whiff of rotten eggs. “Stacey’s clothes were pretty revealing,” she says through the curtain. “My mom wouldn’t have let me walk to the kitchen in that outfit she was wearing.”
“Wait,” Lindsey says. “Just because she’s wearing skimpy clothes means that she’s lying about those guys forcing themselves on her?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” says Christy. “It’s Stacey’s word against theirs. She’s accusing them.” Christy settles on a pair of platform shoes and turns to address me and Lindsey. “Look, this is not rocket science. It’s common sense. If you don’t want to work a guy into a lather, keep your cooch covered up.”
I laugh in spite of myself because of the way Christy says “cooch.” Rachel giggles from behind the curtain.
Lindsey smiles, but she’s not letting it drop, and part of me wants to run over and put my hands over her mouth. Please don’t egg Christy on.
“I dunno.” Lindsey sounds unconvinced. “Look at Beyoncé and Miley. They dress like that. Sometimes they wear way less than Stacey was wearing. Does that mean they want guys to have sex with them even if they say no?”
Rachel whips open the curtain. “Everyone! Shut up and look at me.”
She poses, like a print model, her hands tangled in her hair, holding it up from her shoulders. The dress is a crimson eighties number with an asymmetrical neckline. The short, shiny red skirt fits her perfectly. The triangular top bares her shoulders and seems to be supported from within to keep its shape. The whole thing is finished off by a bow at the waist with a giant rhinestone center. She looks like a character in this old movie Will and I watched the other night on cable called Heathers.
“How very,” I say.
“That’s the one,” Lindsey agrees.
Rachel walks out and steps into a pair of the highest heels I have ever seen. There are bows across both toes, and she immediately grabs my shoulder for balance. “Oh my god!” She laughs, struggling to stay upright. “And I’m not even drunk.”
Christy takes Rachel’s other hand to steady her.
“It’s just so scary,” Rachel says.
“Walking in those shoes?” I ask, hoping to avoid a return to the subject at hand.
Rachel takes a few halting steps forward. “No. I mean, this whole thing at the party.” She stumbles back toward me and steps out of the shoes. “I don’t know Stacey that well anymore. I only know that when you wear sexy clothes, guys get all turned on, and if you’re drunk and they’re drunk, you have to be really careful.”
“Do you?” Lindsey frowns. “There were plenty of girls wearing sexy clothes and drinking that night.”
Rachel glances at me and I can tell she is thinking the same thing I am: We were both drunk, too. This unspoken thought hangs there between us like the funk wafting up from all of these dead people’s clothes. Is the ghost of somebody’s grandma shocked and appalled that we’re discussing this in public? Part of me is.
“I just don’t believe Dooney and Deacon would have sex with a girl who told them no,” Christy says. “They could be with any girl they want. They’re not that stupid.”
“What if she didn’t tell them no because she couldn’t?” Lindsey asks quietly. “What if she was too drunk to say anything?”
Christy shrugs. “And whose fault is that?”
Lindsey opens her mouth to say something else, but before she can, Connie Bonine rushes up behind her, dragging Ben along by the hand.