What We Saw by Aaron Hartzler Page B

boob than the law allows.”
    â€œI remember,” I mumble.
    â€œSort of wish I didn’t,” says Rachel.
    â€œOh, c’mon. Where’s your sense of humor?” Christy tosses the halter top back onto the rack and flips through more hangers, draping every other garment over her arm, and grinning as she hunts for the perfect outfit. She doesn’t seem fazed by the arrests or the accusations. I’ve always envied her ability to let bad news roll off her back. She could lead a pep rally on the deck of the Titanic .
    â€œThis whole thing is making my stomach hurt,” I say.
    Christy shrugs a whatever my way and barrels into one of two makeshift dressing rooms. She tosses a rainbow of polyester pantsuits on the stool by the mirror and jerks the curtain closed. Christy shops like she plays goalie: Divide and conquer.
    Rachel sighs and shakes her head. For perhaps the first time in our friendship, she’s fine with not talking about something. I’d rather not discuss it either, but this isn’t a comfortable silence. It’s like someone has poured itching powder all over us, only we’re pretending nothing’s wrong and trying not to scratch ourselves. I can hear Christy pulling clothes off and on, laughing and groaning at the results.
    â€œFind anything good?” I ask Lindsey.
    She shrugs. “Feels weird shopping for a dance when all this is happening.”
    â€œWell, we don’t really know for sure what’s going on,” Rachel says, pulling a dress off a rounder behind me.
    â€œYeah.” A funny sensation crosses my tongue as I say that word. My agreement tastes sour. Don’t we have a pretty clear picture of what went on? I smile at Rachel and keep looking for something to wear. I’ve flipped through a whole rack, but wasn’t really paying attention. I keep seeing Stacey in that halter top.
    Christy sweeps open the curtain to her dressing room. “Boom. Mic drop.” She struts out in a powder-blue pantsuit that looks like a costume from an old disco movie, dancing over to us, bell-bottoms swaying. The rest of us laugh so hard we can’t speak.
    Lindsey regains composure first and shakes her head in amazement. “It’s perfect.”
    â€œRight?” Christy is as pleased as we are. “I’ll tell you one thing, Stacey woulda been just fine if she’d worn this to Dooney’s.”
    Letting things go is not Christy’s strong suit. I hold my breath for a second hoping that Rachel will allow the moment to pass, but she doesn’t.
    â€œWait—what?” Rachel cocks her head to the side.
    Christy sorts through a bin of platform shoes. “C’mon, Rach. Stacey went to that party looking for trouble.”
    Lindsey frowns as Rachel turns back to us, her wide eyes encouraging me to jump in at any time. Instead, I stay silent. Please let’s not talk about this here. I try to beam the words into Rachel’s brain, but she misses my mental text message.
    â€œI think she went to that party for the same reason we all did,” Rachel tells Christy. “To have some fun.”
    â€œAnd how do we know she didn’t have fun?” Christy asks. “Maybe she had too much fun and regretted it in the morning. So she freaked out.”
    â€œIt doesn’t look like she’s having much fun in that picture,” Rachel says.
    â€œIt was one snapshot,” groans Christy. “For all we know, Stacey posed for that.”
    â€œAnd then filed charges?” asks Rachel.
    Christy seems to ignore this and keeps digging through shoes. As I turn to ask Rachel’s opinion of a butter-yellowprincess dress, Lindsey pipes up. “I’m just really confused.”
    â€œIt all seems pretty obvious to me,” says Christy. “Stacey’s been trying to get with Dooney all year. Probably threw herself at all those guys when they went downstairs, then changed her mind after she got