Carole has a manila folder on her lap. She opens it, glancing quickly at the paper on top. Haley can’t read what it says, but it looks like bullet points.
“How are you doing?” Carole asks Jenny. Not unkindly.
Jenny’s jawline tightens. She doesn’t answer.
“Have you given any more thought to taking some time off?”
“I can’t take time off. I’ll fall too far behind.”
“Your professors would accommodate you,” Carole says.
“You’ve spoken to my professors?”
Haley detects panic in Jenny’s swift question.
“No, we would not violate your privacy that way. But the college has a policy of accommodation in cases of illness or mental distress. You could keep up with your assignments from home and—”
“I have labs; I can’t do them from home.” Jenny cuts her off quickly, ending the topic.
Carole’s eyes return to her lap, the folder. Her face is a mask. Haley imagines that if you Googled “expressionless” and searched for images, this face would pop up. “Let me update you on where we are,” Carole continues. “The respondent in your case was notified this morning. As of today, he knows that you have filed a complaint against him. He has a copy of your statement.” Sharp breath from Jenny. There are tissues on an end table near Carole. She holds the box out. Jenny pulls one, dabs her eyes.
“What did he say?” she asks, voice shaky.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss that,” Carole says. “He has three days to respond to this office, in writing, to your complaint. At that point you can read his statement.”
Jenny blows her nose. Carole sits quietly.
“And then?”
“If he decides not to contest, then the college will decide what sort of sanction is in order. If he decides to challenge your complaint, then we’ll proceed with an investigation and hearing.”
“So what do I do until then?”
“There’s nothing to do until he responds.”
Jenny blinks. As if Carole has suddenly spoken to her in a foreign language. “So he’s just . . . walking around,” Jenny says. Asks. Haley can’t tell which.
“We’ve discussed this,” Carole returns mildly. “There’s a process.”
“I know,” Jenny says quickly. “I just . . . don’t want to see him.”
Carole clasps her hands neatly atop the folder. “You have every reason to feel safe. Your classes don’t overlap, and as of today he’s restricted from entering your dorm as well as the library and dining hall you designated. You can go about your normal business.”
Normal business. Process. The words jar Haley. Not only because there has been nothing “normal” or “businesslike” about her roommate lately, but also because she’s gotten an earful about “process.”
Just the other day she’d walked into their room moments after Jenny concluded a shout fest on the phone with her father.
“He’s mad at the college, so he’s yelling at me,” she said before Haley had even put down her pack. Her face was red, eyes raw. Haley didn’t need to ask who “he” was.
“Now Daddy Dearest wants me to file a report with the police,” Jenny continued. “At least that’s what his lawyer is telling him I should do. He says the college won’t expel my rapist until their hearing is finished, but they could kick him out if a criminal investigation is underway. In other words, if I go to the cops, he’s off campus. At least for a while.”
Haley sat on her bed and wondered what to say. Within days of reporting the rape to the college, the pixie--cute Jenny of early September had devolved into an unkempt mess. The constant, frenetic showering following the Conundrum party had been replaced by a hygiene strike: no laundry, stringy hair, questionable tooth brushing. Formerly a library--and--lab rat, Jenny had taken to studying exclusively in their room. Eating there, too, which hadn’t blended well with the sour laundry odors.
“Cops?” Haley asked.
Jenny laughed. “Not happening,” she replied. “Do you know what they make you do? Something called a rape kit. It’s . . . beyond awful. Carrie explained it. They examine you, naked, on a table. Take photos. Comb and swab every inch of you.” Jenny shuddered. “Like getting raped all over again. I know it’s how they collect evidence, but I can’t. I just. Can’t.”
Haley nodded sympathetically. “No one blames you, Jenny.”
Jenny snorted. “Except my dad. He thinks I’m being ridiculous. ‘File a report!’ he says.” Jenny dropped her voice to this deep, guttural imitation. “ ‘Get the cops to shake a confession out of this guy. None of this namby--pamby college shit!’ ”
“Could they?” Haley asked. “Get him to confess?”
Jenny shot her this give--me--a--break expression. “Doubtful,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’d be dealing with hearings, lawyers, juries. For months. Years, even. But if I only report it to the college? A lot quicker. Carrie says it could be over by Christmas.”
“Well. There’s your answer,” Haley said.
“Not my father’s answer. Meanwhile, all my mom does is cry and beg me to go home. Like I want to come home so every-one can pressure me to go to the police?”