...[CHAPTER 13].................

I’ve heard of date rape before, but it always sounded like something weird and ugly and out of control — something that would never happen to a girl like me. Even now I question whether that’s what really happened or not. To be fair, I think I may have sort of led Harris on by dressing provocatively, inviting him into the condo, consuming alcohol with him, kissing him, and letting him take me into the bedroom … so how can that be called rape? Or even date rape?

And even if it was date rape, what am I supposed to do about it now? Harris has already spun his story all over the school — everyone believes him. Even if I could open my mouth, which I seriously doubt, it would be his word against mine. My stomach growls, reminding me that I missed lunch and only had juice for breakfast. I fix a bowl of cold cereal, and as I eat it, I attempt to think clearly. I usually consider myself to be fairly smart and on top of things, but I can’t seem to figure this thing out. Mostly I just want to escape it. I want to run and hide.

I put the bowl in the dishwasher, then go to my room, climb into bed, pull the covers over my head, and close my eyes. If I can’t just die, I want to will myself to sleep for about a hundred years. Or at least until I’m an adult and can leave on my own and begin a new life without this kind of torment.

I wake up around seven and am not surprised that Dad’s not home yet. He usually works late. At first this annoyed me, but now I think it’s a blessing in disguise. One problem with Mom was that she had too much time on her hands. She was always hovering over me, asking questions, making accusations, and hatching plans to lock me safely away. Of course, in light of what I’ve done with my newfound freedom, a part of me wonders if Mom might’ve been right.

I pick up my phone and, in a moment of weakness, dial her number. I’m tempted to hang up on the first ring except she has caller ID and she might already know it’s me. I remember how the last time I called her, shortly after Dad got me this phone, she laid into me about how a cell phone would only get me into trouble.

“Hello?” Her voice comes through loud and clear.

“Hi, Mom.” I hope she can’t hear the tremor in my voice.

“What’s wrong, Haley?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I just wanted to call and say hey.”

“Hey? You mean hello?”

“Yeah, hello.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, Mom. Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have called.”

“What’s your father doing?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now.”

“He’s working?”

“At home?”

“No, at work.”

“So he left you home alone?”

“Mom, I’m sixteen.”

“Precisely. You’re sixteen and home alone at night. Doesn’t your father realize what kind of trouble a teen girl can get into if she’s left home alone?”

“Oh, Mom.” I let out an exasperated sigh but at the same time realize she’s right.

“Why is he working at night? Is his job in jeopardy?”

“No, not at all.” I try to think. “He just had something he needed to take care of. He should be home anytime now.”

“Well, let’s hope so. I told you over and over, Haley, your father does not know how to parent. He does not want to parent. He abandoned you and Sean, and why you chose to go live with him defies all reason.”

“How is Sean?” I ask, hoping this will change the subject.

“The same. He won’t go to church with me. I don’t know what’s wrong with you kids. The Bible says that if you raise a child in the way he should go, he won’t depart from it, but you two children certainly departed. However, I lay the blame for that at your father’s feet. You’re both following in his wicked footsteps.”

“Well, I just wanted to say … hello…. I should probably go. I have homework to do.”

“How are your grades?”

“I haven’t been here long enough to know, Mom.”

“Well, you better stay on top of your studies. Not that your father will be any help in that department. You chose to be on your own when you left. As my mother used to say, you made your bed and now you’ll have to lie in it.”

“Yes, I know.” I glance over at my unmade bed — the same bed where Harris raped me just two nights ago. “I’ll talk to you later, Mom. Please tell Sean hello for me.”

We hang up and I begin to cry all over again. Why on earth did I think talking to Mom could possibly make anything better? It only made everything worse. Whether she’s right or wrong … I’m not even sure. What I do know is her words are like knives slicing into fresh wounds. I so don’t need that.

I attempt to do some homework, which is a challenge since I left some of the books I need in my locker. But now I’m thinking about that anonymous warning letter I got last week. I wish I had saved it and I’m trying to remember exactly what it said … and how it said it. At the time I thought it was from Emery or one of her friends, trying to scare me away from Harris. Now I wonder if it was written in sincerity. It seemed like it was written by a girl, so maybe someone else has been through something like this with Harris.

I do recall Libby mentioning how Harris was unfaithful to Emery last summer. Was it possible he did something like this then, too? Too many questions and not enough answers.

Dad comes into the house around ten. I go out to say a perfunctory hello — mostly so I can retire back to my room on the pretense of going to bed.

“Sorry to be so late,” he tells me. “Tyson at work talked me into a racquetball game and I didn’t think it’d last so long.” He lets out a tired sigh. “I’m beat.”

“Me, too. I just came out to say good night.”

He smiles. “You’re a good kid, Haley.”

I just nod, then turn and go back to my room. A “good kid” whose life is seriously messed up. I briefly wonder what my dad would do if I told him what happened on Saturday night. But I think I can guess … it would make him extremely uncomfortable and ruin everything.

One thing I decide as I get ready for bed is that I’d like to find out who wrote that warning letter. I’m just not sure how to go about it. I really don’t enjoy talking to anyone at school — at least not about Harris. Still, I feel like if I could get to the bottom of that letter … well, maybe it would help.

……….

My second day at school (following the incident) isn’t much better than the first. I would think people would find something or someone else to talk about, but they seem to be primarily interested in me. I feel like a shadow as I walk down the halls, keeping my eyes down, not speaking to anyone. Even when I venture into the cafeteria at lunchtime, I keep to myself, getting a cheeseburger and finding an isolated table in a corner.

Unfortunately it’s not isolated enough to keep me from seeing Harris’s table. And I’d have to be blind not to see that it looks like he and Emery are getting back together again. I’m sure that makes Emery very happy. Now she’ll have an escort for homecoming. I hurry to wolf down my burger, quickly escaping outside, where I almost feel like I can breathe again. Will this ever get any easier?

I don’t know what to do or where to go. Mostly I’d like to go home, climb into bed, and just sleep. Sleep seems my only escape. But since I have art next, I head over to the art room. Hopefully, no one will be there and I can hide for a while. But I’m barely in the room when Ms. Flores calls out hello from her office.

“Oh, hi,” I call back. “Do you mind that I came early?”

She smiles. “Not at all.”

I just nod, making my way to my art locker, where I retrieve my current project and carry it to the far back table. Then I go to the front of the class to gather my supplies, and Ms. Flores comes out of her office.

“I can’t help but notice that you seem sad, Haley.” She looks closely at me. “I mean, compared to when you first came here. You seemed happier then, more confident. Is something troubling you?”

I don’t know how to respond. I’m not used to a teacher being this tuned in. Most of them seem to want to get the job done and get out. But Ms. Flores seems like she really cares. “I, uh, I guess I’ve had some boy troubles.”

“Oh.” She nods. “Well, that can be a bummer. I’m sorry.”

Tears come to my eyes now and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s just her sympathy that’s getting to me. “Yeah — ” My voice breaks. “I’m kind of having a hard time with it.”

“Like I said, I’m a good listener.”

“Thanks.” I use my hands to wipe the tears that are streaking down. “It’s just that, uh, I don’t think I can talk about it right now.” I glance at the clock, seeing that it’s only ten minutes until class. “I mean without falling apart.”

“Well, whenever you’re ready, Haley, I’m here.”

“Thanks.”

I feel like a drowning person who’s just been thrown a life preserver — and I know I should grab it. But I just can’t. Something in me just can’t say the words out loud. It would sound so ugly and nasty and disgusting. How will I ever be able to speak those horrid words to anyone? And what will happen when I do?

I go back to my table and begin to work, hoping I can lose myself in the painting. A break would be nice. But as the other kids trickle in, Poppie and Zach relocate themselves to my table.

“Why are you sitting back here?” I demand.

“Why are you?” Poppie shoots back.

“Maybe I just want to be alone.”

“That’s not very social.” Zach pulls out a chair and makes himself comfortable.

I just shake my head. “Whatever.”

“Hey, that’s looking good,” Poppie tells me.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

Zach points to where I’m working on the truck’s license plate. “Really nice detail there, Haley. You look like you’ve done this before.”

I just shrug. “Thanks.”

“See, we’re not so bad.” Zach sets up his own tools.

“Have you decided what you’re going to demonstrate yet?” Poppie asks me.

“Huh?” I look up, confused. “Demonstrate?”

“At the fall art fair. Remember you volunteered? That means you get to demonstrate one of the medias. I’m going to do acrylics and Zach is doing block printing.”

“You could do watercolors,” Zach tells me.

“Or pottery,” Poppie says. “No one’s signed up for that yet.”

“But maybe she’s not into pottery,” Zach says, almost like I’m not there.

“As a matter of fact, I am into pottery,” I inform them.

“Are you any good?” Zach asks.

“I’m okay.”

So now Zach goes up and tells Ms. Flores that I’m a potter, and the next thing I know I’m signed up to demonstrate pottery making on the wheel. “The art fair is two weeks away,” Ms. Flores tells the class. “And I’d like to have some of your work ready to be displayed a few days before the show, so if you have pieces that need matting or framing or whatever, please make sure you plan ahead for how you’ll handle that.”

Then she comes over to where I’m sitting and places a hand on my shoulder. “Haley, do you have any finished pottery pieces you can bring for the show?”

I look up from my painting. “I, uh, I didn’t bring anything when I moved down here to live with my dad. I suppose I could ask my mom to send some to me, but she might not —”

“I have a better idea. Why don’t you come in here after school and make a few pieces? I assume you’re comfortable throwing pots, right?”

I nod, without admitting I was considered one of the best potters in my old school.

“Great.” She smiles. “The sooner you get on it, the better the chances your pieces will be glazed and fired in time for the show. Want to come in this afternoon to get started?”

I shrug. “I guess.”

“Perfect.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze, then goes across the room to help another student.

I’m still trying to figure out how I got roped into this, but, strangely enough, I don’t really mind. Maybe it will be a distraction to my troubles. I continue painting, vaguely listening as Poppie and Zach chat and banter about this and that, nothing that interests me too much. But to my surprise I’m disappointed when the bell rings. I think this is the first time I’ve come close to enjoying myself since that horrible night with Harris. I suppose it should give me hope.

But I’m on my way to my next class when I see something that turns my stomach upside down. I’m just coming around the corner of the senior locker bay when I spy the back of Harris. In his arms is Emery and they are kissing.

Hoping no one sees me, I spin around and go the opposite direction. I duck into the restroom, head straight for the stall, and cannot decide whether I’m going to cry or hurl. As it turns out, I do both. I stay in there several minutes until I hear the bell ring, then dash out and hurry to PE, knowing that if I get ready and in line before roll call, I won’t be marked tardy.

At the end of the day, I feel exhausted again. All I want to do is go home and go to bed and sleep and sleep. But I remember my promise to Ms. Flores and for some reason that matters to me. So, feeling like zombie girl, I trudge back to the art department.