Coach tells all of us to keep our heads in the game. “There’s a lot of crap floating around this week. Eyes on the ball, ladies. Don’t lose focus.” She points to the sideline and says I should sit out for a bit, then she gets practice going again.
A cosmic rage wells up inside me as I watch. Not at Rachel or at Coach. I’m angry with myself. Why do you keep asking questions you don’t want to know the answers to? Why can’t you let this go? Whatever happened or didn’t happen to Stacey, I wasn’t there. Ben wasn’t there. My friends weren’t there.
I finally have a boyfriend, and if I work hard this year, I might be able to get nationally ranked. Maybe even be in the running for a scholarship. My best friends in the world are on this team with me.
So why can’t I just let myself be on their side?
Coach is right. It’s time to get my head back in the game.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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thirty-one
BEN IS COMING out of the gym as Rachel and I walk toward the parking lot after practice. He sees the cold pack I’m holding against my head and frowns, jogging across the grass to meet me. We explain what happened and when I show him my bump, Ben smiles and taps the scar behind his ear. “Now you finally know how it feels.”
Rachel laughs as I protest. “It was an accident.”
Ben takes my soccer duffel, adding it to his own gym bag and backpack. He doesn’t seem to notice the extra weight. He slides his arm gently across my shoulders and we walk together. Will comes trotting over, a loyal hound dog sniffing for a handout.
“Can I come to Happy Joe’s with you?”
My mouth opens to say absolutely not, but Ben says, “Pizza sounds good.” Rachel tells him to meet us there, and just like that, our first day of practice tradition is expanded to brothers and boyfriends.
Given enough time, everything changes.
I realize I have forgotten my geology book and have to go back inside to get it. Lindsey and Christy are already on their way. I tell Ben and Rachel to go ahead.
“Wanna ride shotgun, Pistol?”
Will’s face almost falls off when Ben says this. Ben, making it easy, surprising me one more time by being even better than I expect him to be. I smile and tell them I’ll meet them there, then head back into the deserted hallways.
On the way back to my car, I follow Principal Hargrove through the side door to the parking lot. He is leaving for the day, a briefcase in hand. I realize he’s started parking behind the school. The faculty spots in front are probably too close to the news vans. As I step outside, I see I’m not the only one who has figured this out.
Sloane Keating is dressed to the nines from the waist up: salmon-colored suit jacket, flat-ironed hair, and a full face of makeup. Anything the camera will see is perfect but she’s wearing jeans and Nikes down below. She puts the sneakers to good use keeping up with Principal Hargrove’s long strides toward his station wagon, shouting questions at him all the way.
How much do you know that you aren’t saying?
How many kids were at the party?
Why aren’t you insisting they come forward with any information they have?
Are you involved in the cover-up?
This final question makes Mr. Hargrove pull up short, halfway to his car. A flush of righteous indignation spreads from his cheeks in both directions, dribbling down his neck and scalding his bald spot.
“Ma’am, your questions are out of line.”
“Your refusal to answer the questions makes people suspicious.” Sloane says this pleasantly, like she’s discussing the state basketball tournament this weekend or the fact that the weather warmed up again last night.
Principal Hargrove takes a deep breath. “The boys who have been dragged into this mess are good kids and—”
“Who’ve been accused of rape.” Sloane is not backing down.
“They are innocent until proven guilty,” he fires back. “You’ve decided they’re guilty already.” The principal jabs a finger in the direction of the front parking lot. “You people are holding your own trial out there.”
“Nothing can be proven at all until we have the facts.” Sloane is firm and unwavering.
“The facts?” Principal Hargrove puffs. “The facts are that these guys come from good families. Their parents are good people, friends of mine. Their homes are stable. They are pillars of this community. All of that has been called into question by a young woman who has little supervision, and by most accounts has made some very questionable moral judgments.”
“Can I quote you on that?” Sloane is speaking into her phone and holds it back toward the principal, recording every word.
“No, you may not,” he thunders. Mr. Hargrove wipes his hand across his forehead. It’s a fruitless attempt to settle the hair he no longer has and the nerves over which he has clearly lost control.