I don’t tell Mrs. Hargrove what really happened, but I find sharing even part of the truth is a relief. I don’t mention Ross by name, and I don’t say he forced himself on me. I just say I wasn’t comfortable with how things were going and worried about next time. So I broke up with him.
“I know it doesn’t feel like it now,” Mrs. Hargrove says, “but I think you made a wise decision. Chances are, he would have been more insistent next time. And if he forced you, that would be rape.”
Hearing the word makes me wince.
“Yes, Emma. Rape. The thing that makes it so terrible is that it is as much about power as it is about sex.” She pauses and then adds, “It’s a criminal offense.”
I pull back in shock.
She puts a hand on my arm, and my blood pressure comes down a notch. “And it’s not generally a one-time thing. A guy who rapes once will probably do it again. It sounds like you had a lucky escape.”
“I guess,” I say. “But what if I hadn’t?” The second the question leaves my mouth, I want to bite it back.
Mrs. Hargrove looks at me for what seems a very long time. Finally she says, “But you did.” It’s more a question than a statement. “Even so, the situation has clearly upset you. It might be a good idea to talk to a trauma counselor. I could make the arrangements.”
I quickly shake my head. “No, no. I’m good. Really. I was just feeling sorry for myself.” I shrug. “You know—about breaking up with my boyfriend. I wasn’t sure I’d done the right thing. But now I see that I did. Like you said, I was lucky.”
She frowns but nods. “Okay. That’s good. But you realize that girls who aren’t as lucky should talk to the police.”
My stomach does a somersault. There’s no way I can go to the police. I’ve seen the shows on television, and I’ve read the newspaper. People always think it’s the girl’s fault—that somehow she asked for it. And if my dad found out what happened, I would just die.
The bell rings, announcing class change, and I shoot Mrs. Hargrove a panicked you’re not going to make me go look.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?” she says. “I’ll check you out at the office. Tomorrow morning you’ll come back to school and make a fresh start, get on with your life.”
I know Mrs. Hargrove means well, but I can’t bear the idea of ever facing the kids at school again. They all know—or think they know—what I’ve done.
“But I’m so embarrassed,” I mumble. “People saw me crying. I just know they’re going to be talking about me.”
“There’s nothing you can do about gossip,” Mrs. Hargrove says. “It hurts, but you can tough it out. You’re strong enough to live through it. Besides, it won’t last. In a day or two you’ll be yesterday’s news, and the gossip mongers will have moved on to something—or someone—else.” She squeezes my hand. “You’re a good person, Emma Kennedy. Remember that. Don’t let anyone bully you into believing differently. Hold your head high.”
I nod and try to smile, although inside I’m panicking. It’s easy for Mrs. Hargrove to give me a pep talk. She isn’t the one everyone will be staring at and whispering about.
“I’ll go to class tomorrow,” I say, “but I’m not going to volleyball after school.” I start to say, The guy who raped me, but catch myself. “My ex-boyfriend is on the boys’ team.”
“You shouldn’t give up doing what you enjoy. Seeing him could be uncomfortable, but you can avoid him. Stay close to your team and leave right after your match.”
“Yeah, I guess. But I don’t have a ride to the game. I usually go with someone on my team, but we’re kind of not talking at the moment.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find you a ride. You just be ready to play.” As I stand to leave, she adds, “And Emma, my door is always open. If you want to talk some more or just need a shoulder to cry on—any time—I’m here.”
Mrs. Hargrove is right about people losing interest in me. At school the next day, there are no notes or dirty pictures in my locker, no graffiti anywhere and, as far as I can tell, no one leering at me. In fact, aside from a few curious glances, nobody even seems to see me. I’ve gone from living under a spotlight to being invisible. Overnight. It’s weird, but it’s also a huge relief.
As for volleyball, Mrs. Hargrove has arranged for me to ride with Kelly Vale. Though Kelly and I are both on the volleyball team, I don’t really know her.
“Did Mrs. Hargrove tell you I’ll be leaving right after the game?” she says, aiming the remote at her car. It beeps, and the taillights flash.
“Yeah. I was hoping to get home right after, so that’s good,” I reply, opening the passenger door. The seat is covered with fast-food cups and wrappers.
“Sorry about that,” Kelly says, sliding behind the wheel. “Just dump them on the floor.”
I sweep the junk off the seat and onto a pile of even older garbage. There’s barely room for my feet, but I squeeze in and buckle up.
“I’m not really part of the in-crowd,” Kelly says. “That’s why I never hang around after games.”
“You’re not missing anything,” I tell her, although a couple of months ago I would never have said that. Back then I was proud to be part of the popular crowd.
“You have Mrs. Frome for math?” Kelly asks.
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s she like? I get her next term, and I need to get a decent mark. The thing is, math isn’t my best subject. I need a teacher I can really understand.”
“She’s okay,” I say. “I’m not a math whiz either, and I’m getting 81 percent. If you get stuck, maybe I can help.”
She smiles. “Thanks. I may take you up on that.”
We talk easily the rest of the way. Kelly seems nice, and she never once says anything to imply she knows about my situation. That lifts my spirits a little. Maybe the whole world isn’t judging me after all.
The girls play first, and we win our match easily. Though I’m usually a starter, the coach doesn’t sub me in until the second game. I can’t help wondering if he’s heard the rumors about me and is being cautious because of my recent “condition.”
Of course, the guys are in the bleachers, cheering us on. I try not to look at Ross, but I can’t help it. He must have heard the gossip. So as casually as I can, I glance in his direction once in a while during the match. The thing is, I never once see him looking back. He only has eyes for Jen. I can tell it’s not her volleyball skills he’s interested in.
After the match he heads straight for her and gives her a hug. Jen hugs him back. Then they talk for a few minutes, laughing and finding reasons to touch. It’s easy to see what’s going on. It’s the mating dance for sure.
When Ross finally moves onto the court for his match, Jen turns toward me, like she knew all along I was watching. She smiles the smile of someone who thinks she’s won.
My heart drops into my shoes, and not because I’m jealous.