Dear Kurl,
I know better than to read anything into an expression on your face, after Paisley Park. But your utter refusal to look at me at all, when we passed each other in the hall this morning—the lightning-fast cutting away of your glance and the hastening of your step, your face with your eye a little less swollen but a darker purple now, that nasty scab on your lip—was worse than any so-called withering look you could have shot me. I couldn’t breathe. My ribs shrank into my lungs. Tears came, of course, and I had to scurry to Math and hide my face in my textbook until I regained my composure.
Consent. I’ve been thinking all day about the rules of consent, about how a person can’t give consent to anything sexual if they are incapacitated by alcohol or drugs. Where does Saturday night fall on the consent spectrum for you, Kurl?
At lunch I found Bron and Shayna in their usual dining spot by the kiln in the art room. Neither of them is even taking an art class this year, but they like the vibe, and apparently Rhoda—they use Ms. Deane’s first name, Rhoda—doesn’t mind if they hang out in her room. You should check it out sometime, Kurl. With all those windows, it’s one of the brightest rooms in the school.
Anyhow. Bron was eating rice-and-broccoli salad from a Tupperware container, and Shayna was eating a bag of potato chips and poking her thumb into a lump of clay on the art table.
I dragged a third stool from the neighboring table, sat down, and took my sandwich out of my backpack. “If a girl is drunk,” I said, “and she initiates sex with a sober boy, what should the boy do?”
Bron swallowed her mouthful. “What happened?”
I had to apologize for the overdramatic opener. “I mean a straight boy,” I said. “This is a hypothetical scenario.”
Bron and Shayna exchanged a look, and then Bron frowned and put down her fork. “If the boy is Kurl, tell him it’s disgusting.”
“It’s not Kurl!” I said.
“He’s not even technically a boy anymore; he’s eighteen,” Bron said. “Tell him he should be setting an example.”
“It’s not Kurl.” My face was red, I knew. “Why would you assume it’s Kurl?”
“Because you don’t know any other boys,” Shayna said.
“I do so,” I lied, and then realized the lie was unconvincing and tried another one: “I overheard people talking in Math class, all right?”
“It’s a gray area, legally speaking, if she initiates and she’s clearly saying ‘yes, yes, yes’ the whole time,” Bron said. “But think about it. Would you want to have sex with someone who probably won’t remember it? Who can probably barely feel it, even?”
“Anyone who’d want that, you’d have to seriously question his motives,” Shayna said.
“Would you rather go over to a friend’s house and hang out and have a great time together,” Bron said, “or go break into his house when he’s not home and hang out there all by yourself?”
“Or go break in when he’s sleeping”—a giggle bubbled under Shayna’s voice—“and, like, prop him up on the sofa, so you can pretend you’re hanging out.”
“Okay, I get it,” I said.
“And the next day you say to him, ‘Wasn’t that awesome?’” Bron said.
“And your friend is like, ‘What are you even talking about?’” Shayna said.
I snapped the lid on my sandwich container and put it back in my bag.
“Where are you going?” Bron said.
“Come on, Jojo, don’t be like that,” Shayna said.
“It’s okay. I just remembered I’m supposed to talk to Ms. Khang.” More lies, but they hadn’t offered me the reassurance I’d been seeking. On the contrary, I felt guiltier than ever. It was you I needed to talk to, Kurl, but I looked for you everywhere and didn’t find you. I think you must have left school at noon and not come back.
Yours truly,
Jo