As he opens my door and helps me out of his truck, he flashes me that extra-juice-box grin. “Hang on tight.”
I’m glad Ben is so tall. As I take his arm, I feel like nothing can touch me. I keep my head down and match Ben’s long, sure steps. As we approach the entrance, the reporters crowd our way, shouting over one another, just like they do on TV shows.
I’ve never understood that. As if the reason we’re not answering is that we can’t hear them. Even if I wanted to stop and answer a question, who wants to be yelled at? Where would I begin? How could I get a word in edgewise?
Ben pulls me closer, leaning forward with his shoulder, his arm around me, shielding me from the crowd, the lights, the noise.
The one thing he cannot block are the words.
Were you at the party?
Do you know the victim?
Is Coach Sanders trying to cover up what really happened?
Were you in the room that night?
Have you read the hospital report?
Did you see the alleged assault?
Have you heard about the rape kit results?
Do you know who else was involved?
I know we are close to the front entrance. When I glance up to check our progress, Sloane Keating is staring directly into my eyes. Silent as a statue, she’s letting all the other reporters shout questions. She only smiles in greeting as we walk past her. Ben swings the front door open. I can see the check-in table by the gym entrance, and just when I think we’re home free, Sloane speaks.
“Ben Cody, have you spoken with John Doone since he was released from police custody Wednesday?”
Ben jerks to a stop beside me. I can feel him turn when Sloane calls him by name. I know it’s a reflex. I also know it’s a trap.
“What?”
The other reporters rush to greet a group of students arriving in our wake. Sloane Keating holds the mic up near Ben’s mouth. “Are you glad your friend is home?”
“Of course . . . yeah. I just—” Ben struggles to finish his sentence. “I haven’t talked to him. I don’t . . .” His voice trails off, and I see Sloane Keating’s face soften as she waits for him to finish.
“You don’t what?” she asks.
I grab her arm, pulling the microphone to my mouth. “Have any further comment.”
I take Ben’s hand and somehow manage to propel all six feet four inches of him into the hallway. The door swings closed behind us, but not before Sloane calls out one last thing:
“Great seeing you last night, Kate.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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twenty-one
THE TROPHY CASE just inside the school’s front doors is jammed with brass statues, plaques, and pictures. The “spirit stick” our cheer squad brought home from regionals last year catches my eye, and I imagine knocking it over Sloane Keating’s head as Ben and I catch our breath.
“How does she know our names?” he asks me. “And what the hell did she mean? ‘Great seeing you last night’?”
I have no way to explain this except the truth, but the words are slow to form on my tongue, and before I can say them, the doors swing open again. Rachel, Lindsey, and Christy stumble inside, the latest victors to make it past the reporters.
“Holy hell.” Christy flips her wild curls out of her face.
Rachel tugs at the triangular top of her shiny dress. “Now I know how Taylor Swift feels.” She grabs my shoulder for balance, and pulls off one of her towering heels, shaking it upside down. “Got a rock in my shoe.” Her hair has been hot-rolled into a giant fluffy pile on top of her head.
Once her shoe is back on, Rachel turns to face the group. “Okay. Let’s go dance,” she commands. Instead, we all stand there, sort of shell-shocked. “Oh, c’mon!”
There’s a spark in Rachel’s eye. It’s one of those things no one else sees, but I know her. I know what’s coming. Sure enough, she revs up her favorite dog and pony show.
“Am I going to have to do Rachel’s Ray of Sunshine to get this party started?”
Assuming her Sunday-School-teacher smile, Rachel turns to face me and speaks in a cheery, breathless tone, often reserved for the elderly and children under the age of three. It’s silly, but somehow completely sincere.
“Boys and girls, I want you to know that each one of you is special and beautiful! Kate Weston, your dress is magnificent. You are just a glamorous angel straight from heaven. And you, Mr. Cody, are the luckiest man in the kingdom.”
Christy groans and rolls her eyes. Lindsey lets out a laugh, and even Ben cracks a smile.
“Miss Lindsey, your dress has such pretty feathers! And it’s the color of my favorite ice cream bar. You’re quite simply a Creamsicle swan of loveliness.”
By this point, even Christy is laughing, and Rachel drops her wide-eyed act. “Are we good?” she asks.