I stopped dead in my tracks.
“Get dressed. Go. Now.”
What was she talking about? I was wearing a nightgown! Then I looked down. Through the sheer fabric, you could see outlines of my underwear and the tiny buds of my nipples.
“I said go!”
Standing there, I was no longer a girl. I was no longer a person. I was just a body, exposed and alone. I was paralyzed.
Lawrence took my hand. “Let’s go, kiddo. I’ll help you find your robe.” I don’t remember what he said, but I know I felt better. Later, I overheard him telling Eleanor she was too harsh.
“She can’t walk around like that. It’s inappropriate. We have sons.”
“She’s a child. You frightened her.”
“She won’t do it again then, will she?”
Two weeks after Eleanor’s visit, I’m still in New Haven. I can’t stop ruminating about her high-and-mighty tone, or Lawrence’s endless questions. The phone rings on Thursday night. It’s Nate. “Where are you?” he asks.
“Nice hello. I’m in my apartment. Why? Where are you?”
“Home with Mom and Dad.”
“Okay, what’s going on?”
My question aggravates him. “Suddenly you care?”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Nate?”
“Epic story, Cass. Stop me if you’ve heard this one. Billy Quinn, star-student, all-Ivy athlete, is arrested for felony sexual assault. His parents are locked in a heated battle. Should he take a plea—ass-rape in prison for seven years—or gamble in court? The trial starts in two months and the defense has no strategy. What will they decide? Tune in for today’s gripping episode.”
“Again, what’s your point?”
“You used to haul your ass home in a family emergency. Now our mother has to beg on her knees.”
“Eleanor told you she was here?”
“She mentioned it, sure. We have no secrets, Ellie and me.”
“Well, Nate, I haven’t heard from you in forever. And when I’m home, you’re too busy to acknowledge me. So you can lose the fucking attitude.” In the silence that follows, we listen to each other breathe. Knock it off, Nate. We’re on the same side. Don’t make me the enemy.
“Okay,” he concedes. “Truce. Billy has gone off the deep end. He lays in bed like a corpse, while the rest of us rats scramble for cheese. Except you. I hear you’re lounging by the pool, sipping Mai Tais. Ellie said you’re very tan.”
“Did she. What else did she say?”
“Your shorts are too short, your top is too low, and your apartment is a dump.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. But I’m not wrong, am I?”
We both laugh. “Sorry I haven’t been home. I needed a break.”
“I understand. It’s hell. Worse than hell. But I’m serious about Billy. He’s, like, catatonic. Doesn’t read, doesn’t run. Just lies in bed and zombies out on his computer. I realize he’s scared, Cass. But he can’t step into a courtroom like this. He has to fight.”
“So you want me to help get Billy on his feet and persuade Lawrence to back off?”
“You know, Princess, you’re a lot smarter than you look.”
It’s good to hear Nate’s voice. I’m not ready to hang up. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Maybe.”
“What if we have this backwards? What if Diana Holly is telling the truth? Not about the assault, of course, but what if Billy really did harass her? There’s a lot we don’t know, Nate. Maybe that’s why he’s so fucked up. Maybe he feels guilty—”
“Don’t be a traitor, Cassie. I’m telling you right now.”
“Shouldn’t we consider the possibility?”
“Let’s say it’s true. Let’s say Billy texted Diana fifty times a day and stalked her all over campus. Doesn’t make him a rapist. Doesn’t mean he deserves to rot in prison. Why Dad doesn’t realize this makes no fucking sense.”
“Maybe he thinks seven years is better than twenty.”
“If you support Dad, and betray Billy, I will never forgive you.”
“Never,” I swear to Nate. “Never. Never. Never. I’d never betray any of you.”
*
A girl has more confidence at sixteen than she’ll ever have in her life. She also has more self-loathing. It’s why we’re so moody, why our reactions are outsized. Cyclonic drama is how we achieve balance. The world is chaotic and irrational. At sixteen, we lack a way to control it. So we lean into the chaos. We become the chaos. We express what we feel in real time because we believe, mistakenly, that unburdening ourselves will stop the tumult, or at least help us make sense of it.
Marcus’s kiss unravels me. At almost-sixteen, I feel powerful, unstoppable. I have thoughts and desires. Cravings I can’t yet put into words. My needs, my urges, are all-consuming. Little by little, my life gets reduced. I spend entire days fantasizing about him. No parents or brothers, no classes or activities. Avery is frustrated with me. I won’t text her back. I don’t invite her over. We barely see each other. “What is going on?” she demands to know. But how do I explain I’m not the same girl I was six months ago? Everything is different. “Nothing’s going on, Chickadee,” I tell her, using our pet name for each other. “You’re overreacting.”
I move through my life, my school, my house with purpose. Every action I take, every move I make, is deliberate and calculated. I choose outfits to provoke—short shorts and tank tops, blouses with three buttons undone, uniform skirt hiked up to mid-thigh. Makeup, blowouts, manicures, pedicures, bikini waxes, stiletto heels, dangly earrings, lacy bras, sexy thongs: once these were part of my costume, playing at being a grown-up. Now they’re artillery.
With Marcus, I am cocky, someone I don’t recognize but don’t necessarily dislike. Look at me. Look at my face, my breasts, my hands. Look at my lips. In a crowd, his eyes track me from corner to corner. This is a whole new excitement, his watching. When I get too close, he sputters, fumbles, loses the thread. What were you saying, Cassie? I got distracted. That I can do this to a grown man is remarkable. At the same time, it’s not enough. But I don’t know if I can say I want more. Rather, am I allowed? I want more. I need more. The need is unbearable. I tell him this: More, Marcus. More.
Calling him the other night was a stupid, stupid mistake. Now that I’ve opened the door, Marcus Silver floods in like a tidal wave.
27
AN HOUR AFTER NATE’S CALL, I’M IN MY CAR, ON THE HIGHWAY, swept up in memories. How long will it take to shake Marcus this time? I press on the gas, only partially conscious of the cause and effect, that the weight of my foot is making the car move faster. I see the numbers on the speedometer tick up, hit eighty then ninety. I see myself weave through traffic. But I don’t feel my toes or my heel, my ankle or my leg. I don’t feel my body; I don’t feel anything.
Soon, I’m heading up Park, guided by the Valmont’s spire. Since April, the building has been on lockdown. The board voted to erect twelve-foot walls to keep out the press. Security was doubled. Now, the once-grand castle is bleak and forbidding. The stained-glass windows look like blacked-out eyes. The front door stands open and dark, the mouth of a monster.