“But if the outcome was correct—” Prescott starts.
“Was it, though?” I say, my voice faster now. “The institution wanted a different outcome than the accuser did. To get it, they didn’t need to lie. They just needed to tell the story in the right order.”
I tap the whiteboard. “Theaccountis a story someone told in a particular order, and calling it therecordjust reflects who won the argument and who lost it. In this case, the institution won, and the girl who made the accusation is branded as hysterical.”
Prescott opens his mouth and closes it, and the room tilts another half inch, and I stop checking. I stop monitoring whether my voice is too loud, whether my hands are moving too much, and whether I’m taking up too much of the room.
Prescott keeps pushing back, which is great, actually, because every time he pushes I find a sharper way to say what I mean. When I’m halfway through a quote from chapter five from memory, a girl asks what page, and I tell her without looking, and her eyebrows go up.
The hour is gone in an instant, the room buzzing, and after people pack up, a couple of them saygood discussionon the way out, in the slightly stunned tone that means they hadn’t expected one. I’m capping the pen and gathering my things when Moreno catches me.
“Sloane,” she says. “Got a minute?”
She has a tote bag that looks like it’s been to grad school and back, and she sets it on a chair, pulling out a stapled article, which is dog-eared and has lines highlighted in three different colors and notes in the margin.
“You ran that well,” she says. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you like that.”
“Thanks,” I say, in the small, polite, rehearsed voice.
“I’m looking for a research assistant. I’d like you to think about taking the role.” She holds out the article. “This is something I’m working on. It’s about narrative framing in public shaming cases. Read it, and if you can bring me an opinion that’s worth something, we’ll talk about whether you’re the right fit for the job.”
I take the article. “I’ll read it,” I say.
She smiles, just at the corner of her mouth. “You did really good work tonight.”
And then she’s gone, so I stand with the article against my chest, feeling a spark of pride I haven’t felt in a long time. The first thing I think is,don’t tell Mom yet— and I decide not to look at why.
I slide the article into my bag, and as I put on my coat, I feel the mask settle back, piece by piece, over the thing that just happened. I head out of the building and find the quad mostly empty, and I’m halfway back to Sterling House when my phone buzzes.
It’s Ivy:
Ivy: Ravens lost. 2–1.
Then, a beat later:
Ivy: Rowan played his heart out.
I stop in the middle of the path, the cold working through my jacket. I read the second message twice for no good reason, then lock the screen and keep walking, already tasting the hot chocolate I’m going to make as soon as I walk in the door.
But my mind drifts back to Rowan.
We haven’t really talked about what happened at the toga party. He showed up at the dorm when Ivy was spiraling about her aunt, and I watched him hold the whole thing together, but that was for Ivy, not for me.
I’ve forgiven him, but we haven’t been alone long enough for me to tell him, and I haven’t figured out what I’d say if we were. I ended things with Mason three days ago and I haven’t told Rowan, because telling him would mean admitting there’s a reason to tell him.
And I’m not there yet.
I keep walking, and that’s when I see him.
He’s on the low stone wall in the quad, the one nobody sits on because, at night, even in September, it’s basically a slab of cold against your ass. He’s got his hood up, his bag at his feet, his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands. He’s not waiting for anyone.
He’s just sitting.
He doesn’t see me. That’s the thing that gets me first. Rowan always sees me. At Maple & Main, outside the Lantern, and the whole night of the party at Ironwood House, I could feel him knowing where I was. But right now he’s looking at the bricks between his shoes.
And there’s nothing on his face. No captain, no big brother, no problem solver. He looks like a guy who got hit by a truck about an hour ago and hasn’t found a way to stand up yet. But it can’t just be the game, because he’s lost games before.
He looks small, and Rowan never looks small.
