The sharp edge of silenc.., p.26
The Sharp Edge of Silence, page 26
“That’s my girl,” Ms. Ballard answers. “Wears me right out.” You can tell she’s proud of this fact. “Do you babysit, Charlotte? Because I used Ellie Chandler, but now that she’s graduated, I’ll need someone new.”
“I would love to babysit,” Charlotte says. “She is adorable. Maybe right after the Young Choreographer show.”
“Perfect,” Ms. Ballard says. “I can’t wait to see your program.”
The pull of normal conversation is strong, but then they bounce back to the reality of my dismal self. Uneasy eye shifts. Ms. Ballard leans back in her chair, a notebook and pen in her lap. “Q,” she says finally. “We’re here for you. How are you doing?” Her face has the familiar look of old money—ocean-colored eyes, symmetric smile lines where dimples would be softer, and a veneer of emotional remoteness that I’ve never known how to breach. She probably doesn’t, either, in her defense.
My hand goes for my eyelashes, but I have an audience, so instead I tug at a loose yellow thread on the sofa arm. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I’m a judgment-free listener,” Ms. Ballard adds, crossing her legs.
I keep sipping.
Charlotte leans forward. “Can I pose a hypothetical situation?”
Ms. Ballard nods gamely. It’s okay, I’d rather watch them than speak.
“Let’s say one of my Littles tells me that an upperclassman attacked her—like, sexually.”
Ms. Ballard sets her cup down.
“Let’s say the upperclassman has a lot of clout on campus,” Charlotte continues. “Star athlete, popular, all that.”
I sink into the sofa, watching my fingers twist the thread. I feel Ms. Ballard watching, too.
“What happens to the guy?” Charlotte says.
“We bring him in to talk,” she says without hesitation.
“What if it was last spring?” I ask, staring at my tea. “But the Little was too freaked out to tell anyone.”
“Same thing,” she says.
“With zero proof?” I say.
“Just because the Little says it’s true? That’s enough?” Charlotte asks. “It should be enough,” she adds quickly.
“Girls, this isn’t a police precinct. It’s a school. We have a code of conduct guided by morals and ethics. Everyone needs to feel comfortable here. If something happened, we can do a mediation, so that the . . . wrongdoer is held accountable for his actions and understands the harm he’s done.”
I picture Pearce manspreading on the bench, smirking at me. “What if he denies it?”
Ms. Ballard sits up tall. “In my experience, when the two people in question are in the same room—”
“No way,” I say, shaking my head.
Ms. Ballard cocks her head, like she’s dodging a spitball, and catches Charlotte’s eyes. They exchange a knowing glance that pisses me off. Because they don’t know. They have no fucking idea.
“Q,” Charlotte says. “It’s just a hypothetical, remember?”
“Absolutely,” Ms. Ballard says.
“Really, Q. We’re here for you, not some”—Charlotte twirls a hand dismissively—“hypothetical pig bastard. Okay?” She tries to smile.
“Right,” I say. I picture myself, chucking that gun into the woods. It’s still out there. If I have to resume plan A. I cradle that thought in my mind and let my head flop back onto the cushions. “Last spring, a student here,” I tell the ceiling. Then something makes me look dead-on at Ms. Ballard. “A student raped me. On the Amphitheater Lawn.”
Okay, that wasn’t hypothetical.
Charlotte’s eyes pop to Ms. Ballard’s face, which immediately shifts to a new register of concern. This is only the second time I’ve said it out loud here, and both less than twelve hours apart. It’s strange, but seeing how it lands with her makes something loosen in my chest.
“Oh no, Q,” she says. And it sounds genuine. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.” She’s picking up her pen and notebook. “Who else knows?” The cap makes a tiny click as she pops it off, and I recognize it immediately as a sound of enormous consequence. I just don’t know exactly what I’m activating. I worm my spine deeper into the couch, pull a pillow over my lap. “Nobody at school. Besides Charlotte. And him.”
“When did it happen?” she asks.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m here because I probably need, you know, help. I’ve been having . . . trouble.” I glance at Charlotte. She nods gently. I continue. “I have a therapist from home. We talk twice a week, but I don’t know. It’s harder to see this . . .”
“Pig bastard,” Ms. Ballard says.
We lock eyes, and my chest gives way a little further. “Yes,” I say. “Seeing him around campus brings up a lot of—” Rage is the word, but it’s probably too much to admit. My heartbeat is going wild. “Rage.”
I said it.
Ms. Ballard stops writing. I see her notice the butterfly pinch marks, and I tug my sleeves down. She uncrosses her legs. “Of course. We can set up a meeting today with health services. How do you feel about my giving your parents a call? They need to approve.”
“It’s okay. My dad and stepmom know. And our lawyer. I just swore them to secrecy.”
She looks puzzled. “Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I see myself frozen on the ground and am compelled to stand. I move to the bookcase, running my finger along the books. The Catcher in the Rye, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Frankenstein, The Picture of Dorian Gray. The spines blur. “Our lawyer listened to all the facts and said I didn’t have a winnable case. So why bother?”
I pause, then blurt out, “I was drunk, too. He made sure I was good and drunk.” Drunk is a satisfying word, hard on both ends, staccato, like a punch. I reseat myself. “I didn’t have a chance of proving it to anyone.”
“Did you know this boy well?”
“No. We talked a few times, but he never showed any interest in me until one day he sat next to me on the bench in front of the chapel and asked me out.” I need a way to mask the Summer Sendoff. “For dinner.” Ms. Ballard is untroubled by my vagueness.
“It was so random for him to pick me,” I say.
“Why don’t you think he simply had a crush on you?” Ms. Ballard asks.
“Because he didn’t.” Why didn’t I pay attention to my own gut feelings? “He lost a bet.” I look at Charlotte. Her brow crinkles, and I know I should tell her about Seb, but not now.
Ms. Ballard is waiting. I don’t know what to say next. Unwelcome images play across my eyelids.
My arm hooked in his. Dewy grass against my toes. Kicking off my new sandals, smiling up at him.
My stomach rolls. I straighten my back. Admitting my sheer stupidity is unbearable, so I say, “I knew we were going to hook up.” Charlotte nods. Of course, because she surely wanted to hook up with Seb that night, too. She understands. She just didn’t draw the rapist card, I think bitterly. I watch Ms. Ballard’s face for a twitch in her eyebrow or the corner of her mouth. But she doesn’t change. “I—I wanted to,” I say, then watch their eyes. “It didn’t occur to me that he would be violent.”
“Why would it?” Ms. Ballard nods, writing. Her jaw is taut. “So when did it become”—she thinks—“not consensual?”
The perverted seashell sound of his hot mouth on my ear invades my head. I stand again, turn my back to them, and steady both hands on the bookshelf. Something is collapsing inside, like a building in an earthquake. I can’t hold the weight of it anymore. I inhale.
“We walked to the Amphitheater. He quizzed me on the names of the Muses. I could name them all. We started kissing, and we sat in the grass, and then all of a sudden . . .” His teeth clack into mine. “He pinned me to the ground. It happened really fast. He got the straps of my dress off so I was naked from here.” I demonstrate. “His eyes turned black. Like, hollow.” I let myself sob, then pull it back in. Charlotte sets Kleenex on the shelf and moves away. I blow my nose. It’s swarming, the cloud of black smoke, billowing in the middle of my body.
“Oh, Q. That sounds horrible. I’m so sorry you had to endure that,” Ms. Ballard says. She’s behind me, and she puts a hand on my shoulder. I flinch, and she pulls it away. “You didn’t deserve it. Do you need a break?”
“Why, do you?” I want my words to land like darts. Her mouth is open, but she doesn’t speak. “Of course I want a break from—” The fucking shit show he turned me into. I don’t say that, though. “You are my break!” I wave my hands at them.
They share an alarmed glance; then Ms. Ballard nods confidently. “I’m here to listen to everything you want to share. Do you want Charlotte to leave.”
“No,” I say quickly. I don’t want to be alone with Ms. Ballard. I am not sure I trust her, and I definitely don’t trust myself.
Ms. Ballard turns and says quietly, “Charlotte? Are you okay to stay?”
Charlotte nods confidently, but I know better. You don’t have to stay, I try to say with my expression.
“I’m not leaving you,” she says. “I never should have left you.”
Ms. Ballard furrows her brow. “Were you together that night?”
“No,” I blurt.
“But I was her Big,” Charlotte says, her chin quivering. “Her friend. I should have paid more attention.”
Ms. Ballard shakes her head. “No, Charlotte.”
Charlotte keeps her eyes on me. “Yes, I did a shitty, shitty job. Q, just know I am so sorry.” Her voice breaks, and she drops her head, shoulders bouncing.
Why does this make me cry, too? She should not hurt from this. “It’s not your fault. Nothing is your fault! Please,” I say. “I can’t take it.”
She sniffs. “Okay, okay,” she says. “But I’m not leaving now unless you want me to.”
“Stay,” I say. I move to the window. The morning light is bright, but I don’t blink. “It’s like it just needs to be told all of a sudden.”
“Take your time,” Ms. Ballard says.
I pace a bit. “I said, ‘Stop.’ I tried to push him off. He had both my wrists in one hand over my head.” I rub my wrists now. “I said ‘No!’ really clearly. But he didn’t stop.”
“Did he hear you?” Ballard asks.
I check her for skepticism, but her eyes are soft. “He heard me.”
“How can you be so sure?” Charlotte asks, adding hastily, “I believe you, of course!”
“Because he said”—I exhale and muster the strength to imitate Pearce—“‘Let it be fun.’”
“Gross,” Charlotte says as Ms. Ballard says, “Dear God.”
I hear myself tell them that I remember the scorching pain and the endlessness of it and the way I just lay there and let it happen, like a dead thing. “The worst thing of all, the most disgusting thing”—I can’t stop spewing all the blackness out of myself—“he groaned with pleasure.” I shake my head, shuddering. I might throw up, I realize. I suck in long breaths. “He knew he was hurting me, and it didn’t matter. I was—not there to him. It was not me—like, he could take the flesh and bones without the person.” I unfold and blink. “He ripped me from me. I was trying to leave myself on the ground, but I couldn’t get away. You can’t leave your body,” I tell them.
This is why I don’t recognize myself anymore, I realize. I am a Frankenstein’s monster, a distorted imitation of the Quinn Walsh who walked out there, sandals in hand, flirting just ten minutes before it happened.
“He never even took off his dress shoes.”
Charlotte’s mouth hangs open. “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met,” she says finally.
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
But her words make me cry like a small child. And I have this flash of my mother on a bed in a bright, unfamiliar room, and my dad is holding me up to her so she can hold my fingers, bounce my hands up and down, and she’s smiling, her eyes crinkled at the sides, and she says, You’re my brave girl. Can you be my brave girl, Quinnie? When you can’t see me, I’m here. I’m always watching you, my brave, brave girl. My angel. Her lips press against my fingers.
My ribs open yet further, releasing something I didn’t know was there. It’s under the black mass—little pieces of memory that fell off and hid in the middle of me, covered by seasons of tire swings and fairy houses and ladybug umbrellas, fallen leaves, and running on packed beach sand, through waves so cold they prickle. Under it all, the little pieces of flower petals, the color of hibiscus tea and honey, coming together and breaking apart—a delicate glass heart trying to beat. I do miss my mother.
“I wasn’t brave,” I say. I’m sorry, Mama. My wail is long, taking all my breath with it, and the vibrating black swarm inside me. That’s my soul, I suddenly know. It doesn’t make a sound. Until I inhale deep and hear my own self sobbing. My own old self.
When I finally recover, I feel slightly changed. It’s disorienting. I sit up.
Ms. Ballard has her eyes closed. The notebook is sliding from her lap. She clears her throat. “Dear God,” she whispers. She’s not a teacher right then. She’s a woman. A girl. A mother. Maybe the reason I always say I don’t remember my mom is because I don’t want to feel how huge the hole she left behind is.
“Quinn, you’re beyond brave,” Ms. Ballard says.
I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. I should have clawed him. Kneed him. Bit. I could have bit. This is why I got the gun. I wait for the ugliness to whip up, the black rage. When it doesn’t, I become dizzy. I shut my eyes. I hear Ms. Ballard and Charlotte talk but am too tired to process language. I want to sleep.
I just want to sleep.
Charlotte
“I think she’s asleep,” I whisper to Ms. Ballard. “She did this last night, too.”
“It’s probably a stress reaction,” Ms. Ballard says softly. “We need to get her to Knowlton for help.”
Ms. Ballard opens a narrow closet door behind her desk and pulls out a green school blanket. She spreads it over Q. “Do you know who it is, Charlotte?”
I stare at her. I am not betraying Q, and besides, something tells me I don’t think I want to get involved any deeper than I already am.
“Never mind,” she says. “That was unfair. I’m sorry. Look, this is a lot for you, too. I’ve got Quinn for now. You can go.” She’s fumbling through her bag on her desk. “Excuse me.” She starts texting. I wonder who. She is clearly in a conversation. Her phone rings.
“I’ve got to take this,” she says, hurrying past me into the hall. She leaves the door open, and I see her step outside. “Hello?” She steps off the porch, continuing around the corner, out of sight.
I am exhausted. I have an English paper due tomorrow. Maybe I should go. But I feel guilty. To prolong my decision, I pick up the teacups and carry the tray toward the kitchenette. My feet stutter when I see Ms. Ballard outside on the phone. The window is cracked open. I tiptoe closer, hiding behind the curtain.
Ms. Ballard covers the phone mic. “Bullshit!” she says. Whoa. She uncovers it. “She decided to come back and didn’t want her parents to inform the school. Not enough evidence, according to their lawyer. But she’s falling apart. We need to get her into counseling, so I need to inform the parents.” Pause. “You don’t want to know her name? Oh, great. Leave me as the only faculty member who knows, which makes me liable to the trustees if anything gets out.” Pause. “I don’t know who he is yet. Not yet. But she might decide to have a mediation.” Pause. “We? How can I do that?
She rakes her fingers through her hair. “Fine. But if this takes a bad turn, I’m not taking the fall like Katherine Mason did.”
Trustees? Who is Katherine Mason? This happened before? I gently set the tray by the sink and tiptoe back into her office. I sit in one of the flowered chairs and read my phone.
Seb: Hey.
I literally cannot. I press the lock button, squashing my anxiety about his bet right down with it.
Ms. Ballard comes in, her face grim. “Oh,” she says. “I thought you’d be gone.” She glances at Q and whispers, “If you have studying to do, you really should go ahead.” She’s seats herself at her desk, flipping through a directory. “Take care of yourself. This is a lot.”
I want to grill her about the phone call. I open my mouth, not sure what will come out, but she interrupts.
“It’s okay. Go. I’ll text you when Q wakes up.” She waves toward the door. “You did the right thing, Charlotte, as a Big. Your response was perfect, and now you can step back.”
We stare at each other until she turns away. Does she think I don’t notice her change in demeanor?
“I do have a paper due,” I say, glancing at Q’s slumbering form.
“Bye, Charlotte.” She nods, not lifting her head from the file, and I slip out the door.
Q
I wake to a wall of yellow flowered fabric. I’m facing into the sofa cushions, a Lycroft blanket covering me. I can’t remember where I am until I roll over and find Ms. Ballard working at her desk. She glances up. “Hi there,” she says gently.
“Hi.” I feel different, but I don’t know how. It’s disorienting. I sit up and crack my neck. “May I use the restroom?”
She nods, smiling. “Second door on the right.” She points toward the hall.
It’s a small powder room. The rose-shaped soaps by the sink smell like Boppy’s house. I splash water on my face for a long minute; then I breathe deeply (in for four, out for six), feeling my chest rise. I dare look in the mirror. My curly hair is rumpled, bald eyes sad.
I don’t want to be this anymore.
Ms. Ballard occupies an armchair and has folded the blanket neatly on the sofa arm. I sit beside it.
“Quinn, I want to make sure I understand where you are with this. Your family decided not to turn it into a police matter. But why not take it up with us here at school?”
“I didn’t feel like having to explain myself a million times over.”
“Okay, right. Yes.” Ms. Ballard looks uncomfortable and shifts positions. “The thing is, um, Quinn, is that we—you know, the administration—need to be sure he learns from his mistake.”
