“Weird. She didn’t even find me. Well, this was wicked fun, Chase! Thanks!”
No, Beth! No! It wasn’t fun! It was horrible! I peeked through the reeds, waiting for Chase to go inside. He didn’t. He stood with his arms crossed, and then, as if he sensed my presence, turned his head toward me. I sank back down, fresh terror zinging through my limbs. I wanted to run out, run to my best friend, collapse in her arms and sob out my all-too-predictable story, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. It wasn’t just fight or flight. It was fight, flight or freeze.
I froze. Then came the familiar roar of Beth’s car starting, and it was too late for her to save me.
I waited there, achingly cold now, tears slipping down my cheeks, until Chase’s house went dark. Then I waited more, praying to Saint Anthony of Padua, patron saint of Portugal and fishermen, that Chase wasn’t standing in his dark house, waiting for me to show myself.
Finally, my legs numb from crouching, I crept out of the reeds. Onto the lawn of the house across the street from the Freemans’， staying behind the trees, trying to be a shadow. I passed Chase’s driveway, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it slamming against my ribs.
Then I ran. I ran down the twisting road as fast as I could, my breasts bouncing painfully. I hated my body now, hated it for not being faster, for being the kind of body that attracted male attention, the kind that couldn’t handle weed or beer. I would go on a diet. I would become as slender as a willow. My chest would flatten and my ass would become small, and I’d dress in oversized clothes, I would never have another drink or do drugs, and this kind of terror and loss of control would never happen again. I would never be that stupid again.
It was probably less than an eighth of a mile to Route 6, but it felt like a marathon. Once on Route 6, I kept running, past the road where the Captain Freeman Museum sat like a smug, overweight senator. Past Governor Prence Road, which led to Fort Hill. Route 6 was a two-lane highway, and it wasn’t very safe running in the little bike lane this late. Anytime a car passed, I jumped off the road, hiding in the bushes or behind a tree in someone’s yard, afraid it would be Chase. All the houses were dark. Of course they were. I had no idea what time it was, but it was clearly well past midnight. Maybe even close to dawn. I didn’t know.
I passed the tiny Eastham Tourist Information house, the gas station. Was it the residual beer and weed in my system that made it feel as if I’d been running for hours? I kept going, kept running, kept hiding. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there.
By the time I reached the police station, I was whipped. I stopped to catch my breath, my legs shaking, filthy. I wanted a shower. I wanted to burn these panties that Chase had touched. I wanted to scrub my skin with bleach.
I started toward the station, then stopped.
If I went in, they’d investigate. They’d call my father, because I was still a minor, and he’d know that I was not only stupid, but not to be trusted. The Moms would lecture me about how utterly naive I was, and then Beatrice would launch into a story of how beautifully she had lost her virginity at age seventeen. Hannah would be disgusted and pitying.
The police would ask Chase if . . . if what? What exactly had Chase done? He hadn’t raped me. I’d gone to his room willingly. Made out with him willingly. Let him unbutton my shirt and stick his fingers in my panties. God! I shuddered in revulsion.
And then, I could imagine Chase saying, she wanted to stop, so we stopped. She kind of panicked and ran down the stairs, and I didn’t see her again.
All of that was true. If I said I had to punch him and kick him in the nuts . . . it would be his word against mine. He could spin it, and I already knew he was good at spinning things. She didn’t feel good. Called someone and left. Everyone in school would know that I’d freaked out because Chase got handsy with me. Would anyone believe me that he’d pinned me down and threatened me? That he’d kept me in his room against my will? Dancing like a whore, Chase had said. Even I thought I’d danced like a stripper. I’d been rather proud of that.
My father would be so disappointed.
My shoulders fell. I wasn’t going to file a report. I couldn’t walk in there like this, filthy, covered in mud, probably still stoned and drunk, without ramifications.
So I kept walking. Hannah was in college, way up in Maine. I could call my mother from the visitors center, where there were pay phones. She wouldn’t tell my father, would she? But shit, she’d be disgusted with me, and smug, and maybe she would tell Dad, because it would be a way for her to hurt him. Why didn’t you check in with Lillie? Are you that dumb, Pedro? Our daughter was nearly raped, and it’s because you trust her too much.