how tall he was now. Six-foot-four? He looked bigger to her, but maybe that was her new eyes, or maybe it was the shadow he had cast these four years.
He had waved the bottle at her after taking a swig, mischief but not menace in his eyes. When she had declined, he made her an offer. If she drank, he would answer her questions. It was an important story, the last game before the playoffs, and she needed a quote from the star senior running back. She was the first junior to be editor of the Madison South newspaper, and she didn't feel like she'd proved herself yet. She took the drink.
He was almost dressed now. His clothes fit like a second skin. Sometimes in class she heard girls talking about him, wondering who he was dating. Girls who talked about total yards and the NFL draft as if they were ESPN commentators. He was big news. His name had appeared in nearly every edition of The Campus Voice since she had joined the staff, He was handsome, articulate. His grades were good.
It had turned into a game. One drink, one question. Sometimes she thought back on the Harriet Bishop of four years ago and hated her for her naivete. Her questions had been good ones, at first. She was determined to do a good job. Of course he would answer her questions. Why didn't she have a seat? He was just going to celebrate a little—he put his finger to his lips and pulled the bottle of Jack Daniel's from his bag.
She had made up his quotes later. She even felt guilty about it. She didn't make him sound stupid, or write about what had happened, and he never said a word to her about putting words in his mouth. They hadn't spoken since that night.
Four years ago he'd had a slightly wild reddish brown Afro, but now he kept it shaved close to the scalp. Clean-cut and well behaved. Team captain and spokesman. Insistent upon graduating before submitting to the draft. Model citizen.
She knew she had given him an opening when, near the end of her list of questions, she had veered off the script. Instead of asking him about potential playoff rivals she had asked him if he had a girlfriend. She took a drink to cover her discomfort; he had smiled and accepted the bottle from her. She didn't even remember his answer. She remembered him unzipping his pants and realizing that they were alone in the locker room. She remembered him sticking his crotch in her face, and she remembered shaking her head, telling him no. Somehow, he had made the alternative seem like a bargain, like it was an either/or situation and not one she could opt out of entirely. He had let her take off her own pants, and she remembered thinking, ludicrously, that it was nice of him.
Now he shut his locker, then swore and started to twirl the dial of the combination lock. Almost every day in the last two weeks he had done this. He always forgot something, usually his sunglasses, or one of the books he carried under his arm. The Souls of Black Folk, or The Autobiography of Malcolm X, or Go Tell It on the Mountain. She was sure he had read them, and that he would happily share his opinions of each. He wasn't stupid, not at all.
She had never told her father; she had never told anyone. It wasn't that she blamed herself. It was that she didn't want it to define her. People she had never met would think of her as That Girl Who Was Raped. The victim. Some of them would think she was a liar. Her father—her father might kill Xavier. He was not a violent man, but it would have cut him deeply, and she did not know what he might be capable of doing.
Xavier—she would not call him X, because she would not let him pretend he was someone else—Xavier opened his locker and pulled out a Ralph Ellison book. He shut the locker and grabbed his bag.
She spat and struck him just on the neck. Then she walked out, hearing him swear behind her. She looked in the mirrors as she passed, but she didn't see her reflection. It was like she wasn't even there.
FRIDAY
Alice
He had waved the bottle at her after taking a swig, mischief but not menace in his eyes. When she had declined, he made her an offer. If she drank, he would answer her questions. It was an important story, the last game before the playoffs, and she needed a quote from the star senior running back. She was the first junior to be editor of the Madison South newspaper, and she didn't feel like she'd proved herself yet. She took the drink.
He was almost dressed now. His clothes fit like a second skin. Sometimes in class she heard girls talking about him, wondering who he was dating. Girls who talked about total yards and the NFL draft as if they were ESPN commentators. He was big news. His name had appeared in nearly every edition of The Campus Voice since she had joined the staff, He was handsome, articulate. His grades were good.
It had turned into a game. One drink, one question. Sometimes she thought back on the Harriet Bishop of four years ago and hated her for her naivete. Her questions had been good ones, at first. She was determined to do a good job. Of course he would answer her questions. Why didn't she have a seat? He was just going to celebrate a little—he put his finger to his lips and pulled the bottle of Jack Daniel's from his bag.
She had made up his quotes later. She even felt guilty about it. She didn't make him sound stupid, or write about what had happened, and he never said a word to her about putting words in his mouth. They hadn't spoken since that night.
Four years ago he'd had a slightly wild reddish brown Afro, but now he kept it shaved close to the scalp. Clean-cut and well behaved. Team captain and spokesman. Insistent upon graduating before submitting to the draft. Model citizen.
She knew she had given him an opening when, near the end of her list of questions, she had veered off the script. Instead of asking him about potential playoff rivals she had asked him if he had a girlfriend. She took a drink to cover her discomfort; he had smiled and accepted the bottle from her. She didn't even remember his answer. She remembered him unzipping his pants and realizing that they were alone in the locker room. She remembered him sticking his crotch in her face, and she remembered shaking her head, telling him no. Somehow, he had made the alternative seem like a bargain, like it was an either/or situation and not one she could opt out of entirely. He had let her take off her own pants, and she remembered thinking, ludicrously, that it was nice of him.
Now he shut his locker, then swore and started to twirl the dial of the combination lock. Almost every day in the last two weeks he had done this. He always forgot something, usually his sunglasses, or one of the books he carried under his arm. The Souls of Black Folk, or The Autobiography of Malcolm X, or Go Tell It on the Mountain. She was sure he had read them, and that he would happily share his opinions of each. He wasn't stupid, not at all.
She had never told her father; she had never told anyone. It wasn't that she blamed herself. It was that she didn't want it to define her. People she had never met would think of her as That Girl Who Was Raped. The victim. Some of them would think she was a liar. Her father—her father might kill Xavier. He was not a violent man, but it would have cut him deeply, and she did not know what he might be capable of doing.
Xavier—she would not call him X, because she would not let him pretend he was someone else—Xavier opened his locker and pulled out a Ralph Ellison book. He shut the locker and grabbed his bag.
She spat and struck him just on the neck. Then she walked out, hearing him swear behind her. She looked in the mirrors as she passed, but she didn't see her reflection. It was like she wasn't even there.
FRIDAY
Alice
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