Richard stands. He’s no crusader. Unlike Carrie and the people she hangs with, he’s never stood on a street corner and held up a banner, or signed some pointless online petition. In Carrie’s eyes, that indifference was a big strike against him. He can live with that.
But he’s not a liar. And he can’t live with becoming one for Jordan Bockus, no matter how innocent he might be.
Jordan waves him off. “Is it a lie to say you skipped out on the party to be with your girlfriend? Sounds like the truth to me.”
“What if I’m asked what you said?”
“No one will ask you what I said.”
“And what about when they ask you?”
“I’ll say ‘I did not rape Jenny James.’ Because I didn’t.” Jordan sits back, arms folded across his chest, and waits for Richard’s reaction.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not kidding. Uncle Hard--ass’s advice.”
“That’s it? You go in front of some, I don’t know, tribunal? And they ask you questions and all you say is ‘I didn’t rape Jenny’?”
“Pretty much.”
“Your uncle’s an idiot, man. You’ll look guilty as hell.”
“That’s what I told him. But he changed my mind.”
“Oh? How’d he do that?”
“It’s a long story and I’m sick of talking about it. All I need to know is: can I count on you?”
Richard pauses. None of this feels right to him. He’s sorry they ever cracked open those Blue Moons. Or talked about any of this.
“You can count on me to tell the truth. Totally,” Richard says. “Anybody asks, I’ll tell them I didn’t go to the party, I was with my girlfriend that night, and I’ve never laid eyes on this Jenny person. But if I’m asked what you told me . . .”
“No one’s going to ask you that, Richard,” Jordan says quietly.
“If I’m asked what you told me,” Richard repeats, “I’m not going to lie. I will answer the direct question.”
He fully expects to see anger on Jordan’s face, but instead Jordan seems to be weighing what Richard says. As if this is not as bad, nor as good, as he’d hoped to get out of him.
Then Jordan stands. He puts his hand out. It’s an oddly formal gesture. Richard, surprised, extends his, and they shake.
“That’s all anybody’s asking. Thanks, man.” Jordan steps to the door, hand on knob.
“So what now?” Richard can’t resist asking.
“She wrote out this whole description of what happened — talk about fantasy, I don’t know what planet that girl is from—and I have to respond, in writing, in a few days. My uncle says keep it simple. Just say: not guilty. But man, there’s a part of me that wants to set the record straight. Seriously, she is out of her mind.”
Something occurs to Richard. He should probably edit what follows, but it slips out.
“Was Exley messing with the drinks that night?”
Jordan looks confused for a moment. When it dawns on him what Richard is implying, a brief flicker of anger passes over his face. He replaces it, quickly, with a familiar mocking smile.
“No. And for the record, I don’t need to roofie some girl to get a little action.” Jordan opens the door, but before he steps into the hall he turns to Richard. “Of course, you didn’t just hear that,” he says, winking.
Jordan leaves, the door clicking quietly behind him.
. . .
Tamra, one of the girls from the hall, motions them into her room. The beds are lofted high, bunked at angles to create more space. The walls are papered with bright posters, a state flag, photographs. They hide the old tack holes and tape traces of girls who came before.
Jenny hasn’t been in this room. Until now.
Tamra closes the door. She holds a long paper bag. From it she pulls a clear bottle with a silver--and--red label.
“Pregame, ladies,” she says.
. . .
9
Haley
Part of Haley is totally psyched to find Carrie sprawled on her bed when she opens the door. She knows it’s voyeuristic, semistalking, in a way. But she’s crazy curious about her and Richard, and has been wondering if she’ll get a chance to squeeze some info out of her.
Another part of Haley just wants to cry. She’d come back in order to sleep. She gets so tired in the afternoons. Jen’s usually at the lab this time of day; their room should be empty. Instead, Carrie the Viking is here. With her friend. Gail. Who’s stretched out on Jenny’s bed.
Jenny’s nowhere in sight.
“Hey,” Carrie says, smiling brightly at Haley. Her teeth are miraculously aligned pearls. She’s reading, propped up on one elbow, long legs crossed, shoes off. Colorful socks Haley recognizes from the organic cotton rack at the food co--op.
“Hi.” Haley drops her pack. “How’d you get in here?” Jenny’s gotten fanatical about locking their door.
“Jenny let us in. She had to run out to drop off a paper, but she’ll be back,” Gail says.
Great. Haley concentrates on not looking pissed off. She opens the mini--fridge and pulls out a bottle of water, careful not to slam it shut. Another meeting of the Victim’s Support Club. When did my room become headquarters?
She knows this isn’t fair. But no one around here seems to get how crummy she feels.