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“One of the rape counselors from the emergency room.”
“The what?”
“You were groggy, but able to speak, when you first came in.” Mom describes this like she’s telling me the storyline for the latest movie she saw. “A rape counselor interviewed you. Later, when Tara, Mandy and Jenna came forward and shared that you’d asked for the kinky foursome, the rape counselor did, too. Told everyone you told her it was consensual.”
My knees turn to rubber bands again.
No wonder no one believes me.
I stare at Mom, who gives me a look that isn’t quite sympathy, isn’t quite dismissive, but somewhere in between. “Do you see, Lindsay? This is why we kept you safe on the Island all these years. Too many leaks. Too much disinformation. Back then, it was a shitstorm,” she hisses. “Harry didn’t know who to believe, and controlling his election was the priority. For all we knew, this was deliberate sabotage on someone’s part to make sure your father wasn’t re-elected.”
I’m still blown away by the fact that a rape counselor I don’t even remember lied to the media.
“Huh?”
“The second six-year term was critical for solidifying power on the important committees in the senate, and to pave the way for the White House,” she explains, as if that’s what I was questioning.
“No. No. I, uh, I understand that,” I say. “I mean—the rape counselor lied and nothing happened to her?”
“Oh, something happened, all right. We learned she made a tidy six figures from the tabloid she shoveled that steaming pile of manure to.”
My mind scrambles to connect all of this. Why? Why did someone do this to me? So many someones? Why would person after person lie about who I am and let those bastards get away with this?
“And Tara?” I ask. At the mention of my ex-best-friend’s name Mom’s face hardens.
“What about her?”
“Did someone pay her and my other friends off, too? Is that why they lied?”
She huffs, one hand going to her hair, primping. “Who knows what those little twits were thinking when they conjured up that little attention-seeking circus.” Mom’s anger is coming through. Her words hurt, but the feeling underneath them is the first sense I have that she really does understand that I didn’t choose any of what happened to me. She understands the truth.
She just won’t act on it.
Mom’s phone buzzes. She doesn’t even look at it. “I have to go now, sweetie.” She stands, most of her salad abandoned. “A new playground in Fresno that Daddy got through federal funds. A new community center, too. I’m the guest of honor.” Mom did these appearances non-stop, and had for years. When I was still in school and younger, she came to every single one of my school events, every choir performance, every football game where I cheered, every graduation.
And the press ate it up.
We air kiss, and she departs, like a Category 5 tornado that comes and goes in three minutes, doing more damage in that short window than you could ever fathom possible.
I am hollow.
Empty.
I pick at the rest of my salad and finish off the green bottle of sparkling water. Then I signal to the waiter and order a three-scoop hot fudge sundae. Mom would be horrified.
And that’s why I do it.
As the waiter departs, I see Drew, sitting discreetly at the restaurant’s entrance in a club chair, pretending to be looking at his phone. All the security guys who’ve been following me since Daddy was elected to national office have this uniformity to them. Clearly trained with the same basic techniques, once you know what they are supposed to do, you can pick them out in a crowd in about two seconds. They’re so obvious.
If you know what to look for.
My sundae’s delivered and the candied pecans on top are an extra treat. The first bite nearly makes me moan. My appetite comes roaring back and for the first time in two days, I feel a tiny bit normal. People around me are talking about bills and corporate mergers, about someone getting married and a child with autism, the wisps of conversations so average.
No one is discussing slut-shaming. Or group sex. No political sabotage. No gang rape. Given my limited experience since coming home from the Island, I feel like they’re the weirdos, living sheltered lives where their problems are nothing compared to mine.
“Care for some company?” Drew’s voice startles me and I drop my loaded spoon. It hits the edge of the sundae bowl and flies backwards, plopping into my lap, staining my white pants.
“Thanks,” I snap. “And no. Can’t I stuff my face with ice cream in peace?”
