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Except for Mom. She can’t help herself. Impatience oozes out of her like post-plastic surgery drainage.
“I didn’t,” I croak out, my throat closing on the words. I clear my throat, my pulse between my legs, like all the blood has retreated to the place in my body where the assault happened. Like it’s rallying for me, traveling where it once was needed most, to repair and recover.
Or maybe I just feel that vulnerable. Exposed. Shameful.
“I didn’t,” I try again, “do this.”
All the eyes slowly, discreetly, roll down. Pens become fascinating objects to scrutinize, like ancient artifacts found at a dig.
“I didn’t do this,” I say again, stronger. Drew’s eyelids shut and open slowly, like an owl, giving me support. His slight nod, chin to chest, says, You got this.
No. I don’t.
But I’m trying.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I finally expel, my voice like glass being swept up with a whisk broom, dumped into a garbage can, the delicate vase mourned but soon forgotten.
“No, of course not,” Daddy says, his dulcet tones so programmed. “We know—”
“I didn’t do what Tara and those other bitches are saying. I never asked those guys to do that to me. I never asked for it. I never asked for it. I never asked for it.”
The chant begins and I can’t stop, thrusting my fists against the top of my thighs, the words on autopilot, as if saying them over and over will unravel the past four years and I can reclaim time.
This behavior alarms everyone. Everyone except Drew. I can see why they’re freaked out, Mom giving Daddy a grim look as if to say, I told you so.
I bite the inside of my cheek to make myself stop. I taste blood. I inhale, a ragged sound like all the glass shards are going into my lungs, and then I add:
“None of what you think happened that night is real other than what they did to my body.”
Marshall turns a furious shade of red. The women with him, who have now become The Red Queen and The White Queen in my mind, because of the color of their shoes, put their heads together and whisper, as if we can’t hear them.
Silas goes stone faced. Drew does the opposite, his eyes alight with emotion.
“Lindsay, we’ve done research into this delicate matter,” Daddy says, standing. Ah. Meeting over. Lindsay dismissed.
I march over to him as if possessed by someone I’m not quite sure exists, and grab his wrist. He flinches, shocked by the force of my grip. I want him to feel, damn it. Feel something. Surely, all my emotions are spilling over, like the Hoover Damn after an unprecedented rainstorm, a spillway of monumental proportions.
“Delicate?” I rasp. “You think it’s delicate to sit here and have me listen to you and your strategy team treat my gang rape like it was some college mistake on my part?”
At the words gang rape, I see Mom stand up and march over like a bull rushing a red flag.
“Don’t use those words,” she hisses.
Drew’s body elongates, as if he’s grown a few inches, his muscles rigid and ready. He’s priming himself to physically intervene.
My God. Has it come to this?
“It’s the truth,” I spit out. “I was gang raped.” I try to catch Marshall’s eye, but he won’t look at me. No one will look at me.
Except Drew.
“I wasn’t drunk. Not by choice, at least. I didn’t do any drugs. And those ‘friends’ who lied to all of you, and to the media, are a bunch of backstabbing assholes who lied for some sick reason,” I declare. My chest still feels like a cement truck is parked on it, but the spots in my vision are starting to clear. I’m gaining strength from being free to speak my mind. Speak the truth.
Insist on being heard.
“Tara, Mandy and Jenna are fine, upstanding young women who you placed in a deeply unfair position, Lindsay!” Mom peels my fingers off Daddy’s wrist and digs her fingernails into my palm so hard I feel flesh tear. But I don’t move a muscle, because my skin has separated from my body and hovers above us, miles away.
“No, Mom. The only people who placed me in an unfair position were the three guys who tied me up and raped every hole I have.”
