Maybe I Will (16 page)

Both shows were a huge success with encores and curtain calls, flowers and accolades. During the cast party Saturday night I honestly felt like myself again, and it was totally cool hanging with Shanika all night. We were still laughing and talking a mile a minute on the drive to my house. Shanika's eyes shone when she looked at me, and for a moment all was right with the world. I was with Shanika who, on top of being a senior and blackbelt and all that, looked 100 percent regal tonight. In her shimmering purple blouse, still wearing most of her stage make-up, she could have been Queen Latifah's daughter.

I wished the night would never end, but before I knew it we were pulling into my driveway. As I went to get out of the car, Shanika punched my shoulder and said, “Ya done good, kid!”

“Thanks,” I replied. But as I closed the car door behind me I realized she probably meant it.
I'm just a kid to her. She's a senior; I'm a sophomore. She's a black belt; I'm an orange belt. Now that the musical is over, taekwondo is the only place I'll ever see her.

It was after midnight, but Mom was waiting up for me. “Did you have a good time?” she asked.

I nodded.

“That was another fine performance tonight,” Mom said. “You and Shanika really stole the show!”

“I gotta crow!” I sang, spreading my arms out and adding a little dance move for effect.

“Your dad and I were very proud of you up there on stage,” she added.

“Thanks, Mom.” She came over and gave me a hug. “I think I'm ready to call it a night,” I said.

“Me, too!” And with that she kissed my forehead, unleashed a huge, hippo yawn and wished me sweet dreams.

As I headed off to my room, my emotions plunged deeper toward despair with each physical step I climbed.
Now what?
I asked myself. The only thing I had to look forward to was talking to a detective.
And Shanika's graduation. It's all downhill from here,
I thought as I drifted off to sleep.

On Sunday, I spent most of the day in my room hoping Shanika would text me or call. She didn't. I practiced white belt form and one steps and worked on my new orange belt form.

I thought long and hard about the promises I'd made to my parents and Doc.
No more Nyquil. No more stealing. No more lying.
No one said anything about drinking. I had vodka, still hidden in my closet in case of an emergency.
Is this an emergency?
I asked myself.
Most definitely!
The voice of the monster mocked me.
It's a RE-emergency. Time for me to re-emerge!

So that night, after my parents went to bed, I dug the vodka out of my closet and gulped several ounces. I lay back on my bed and waited for the red-eyed monster to take control. But the monster seemed to be playing hide-and-seek. I took another swig in search of the rage. I called for the monster the way Dad used to call for me as a kid.
All-ye all-ye “outs” in free!
Nothing. No anger. No rage. Nothing but a pile of emotional ashes. So I sat all alone in my room making mud pies out of my emotional ashes and firewater.

My red-eyed monster was gone. If any monster remained, it was a black-eyed monster of depression. Not black eyeballs . . . empty,
eternal black holes in the hollows that should be eye sockets. I drank and devised elaborate plans to get more vodka without actually lying or stealing. I drank until the vodka was all gone and the room was spinning. I was the little ball in the roulette wheel bouncing back and forth between red and black spaces, feeling odd by trying to get even, wondering if my luck had finally completely run out.

Take me back to Never-Never Land. I don't want to face tomorrow. I don't want to face my parents. I don't want to talk to a detective.
I would not allow myself to go to sleep, but I could not keep myself from passing out.

We were scheduled to meet with Detective Morales first thing Monday morning. She wasn't at all what I expected. For starters, despite her name, she definitely was not Hispanic. She had short blond hair and deep blue eyes, and she was dressed in full police uniform, including a bullet-proof vest, gun and Taser. She was all business. After a few formalities, she got right to the point. Yes, I wanted my parents in the room with me. No, I didn't object to having my statements recorded. Yes, I promised to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth under the penalty of perjury.

“Now, Sandy,” said Detective Morales, “I want you to tell me exactly what happened in your own words.”

I went through the who, what, when and where. I had no real answers for why. I tried to just stick to the facts. Aaron did this. Aaron did that.

She had a hundred questions. She went back over everything, detail by detail, body part by body part. What did I do? Why did I do that? Why didn't I do this? Did anyone see? Why didn't I tell someone right away?

“I don't know,” I kept saying. I looked at my parents. They were both glaring at the detective. My mom looked ready to pounce on her at any moment. She was gripping Dad's leg under the table, and he was pressing tightly down on her hand as if to hold her back.

Finally, we returned to a question I could answer. “Who is the first person you told?”

“Shanika Washington,” I replied.

Detective Morales stopped. She looked hard at my mother and then turned back to me. “Is Shanika a female, black, age 18?”

I nodded. “She's a senior at West Side. We were in the musical together.”

“I'll be right back.” Detective Morales turned the recorder off, gathered all of her paperwork together and exited stage left. The door clanged loudly behind her.

Dad almost jumped from his chair. “That was awfully abrupt!” he exclaimed, turning to Mom. “What's going on?”

Mom looked troubled. “I wish I knew.” Mom stood up, pushed in her chair, and began to pace slowly back and forth. “Did you see the look on her face when Sandy mentioned Shanika?”

“Whatever it is, it isn't good,” said Dad.

Mom turned to me. “Sandy, has Shanika ever been in trouble that you know about?”

“No, Mom.” I shook my head. “She's a black belt. Honesty, integrity, perseverance, and all that.”

We waited in silence.

When Detective Morales returned she did not turn the recorder back on. “Mr. and Mrs. Peareson, there are two police reports that I think you should be aware of.” She handed a copy to my mother and acted as if I no longer existed. “The most recent one is from
just a few weeks ago where it was alleged that Sandy was stealing alcohol from a grocery store for one Shanika Washington, female/black/18.”

“That's not true!” I pounded my fist on the table.

“Sandy!” Mom reprimanded me sternly. “You need to be quiet. Don't say another word until you and I have had a chance to speak privately.” Mom read the report and then handed it to Dad. “What is the other report?”

Detective Morales was not so quick to hand this one over. “The other one is from two years ago. It's a report of rape made by one Shanika Washington, female/black/16 against one Aaron Jackson, male/white/16.

No! Shanika? Aaron? That can't be right.
I felt like the frog we dissected in biology, hands and feet pinned spread-eagle, and a sharp little scalpel slicing me open from my throat down to the pit of my stomach.

“May I see that report?” Mom asked curtly.

“Be my guest,” responded Detective Morales, handing over the second report.

We all waited while Mom read. When she looked up she said, “It looks like this was never even forwarded to the district attorney for prosecution.”

“That's because it wasn't,” agreed the detective. “There was no evidence of force. The general consensus was that Ms. Washington consented to the sexual relations, but then experienced ‘buyer's remorse' afterward or, more probably, when her father found out that she was dating Mr. Jackson. Case closed.”

“My salad days,
When I was green in judgment . . . “

—Antony and Cleopatra
, Act I, Scene v, Lines 73-74

C
ASE CLOSED
. D
ETECTIVE
Morales' words rang in my ears. I felt the walls closing in around me.
Which case?
They wanted to blame Shanika for my shoplifting. I could barely bring myself to consider the other case. The detective and Mom were still talking, but their words were a senseless jumble. Their voices beat against my eardrum, but the sounds carried no meaning.

Shanika dated Aaron? Aaron raped Shanika? She never told me anything . . .
Confusion choked me. I blinked my eyes and found myself staring hard at the spiral notebook sealed in a plastic evidence bag.
My notebook.
I reached for it.

Detective Morales snatched the bag away from my reach. “Oh, no you don't!” she barked. This catapulted my father to his feet, but instead of going for her or my notebook, he grabbed my shoulders and held me back.

I shrugged free from his grasp. “I want my notebook back.”

Silence.

“Give me back my notebook,” I demanded evenly.

“Sandy,” Mom began, but Detective Morales interrupted her.

“It's evidence of an alleged crime,” the detective growled.

“But it doesn't sound like you intend to investigate the real crime here.” Mom was standing now. “Give Sandy the notebook, and we'll be on our way.”

Detective Morales snarled, “You know I need permission from the D.A.'s office to do that.” She looked most displeased as she shuffled her papers and my notebook back into a file folder.

“So you do intend to investigate the case and send it to the D.A. for prosecution?” Mom asked.

The detective scowled. “I may as well send it over right now. What else am I going to uncover in an investigation? It's been months since the incident. Sandy's already told me Cassie and Troy were there, and they didn't see anything. Sandy didn't even tell them anything. Sandy and Aaron are the only ones who know what really happened. Do you really think Aaron is going to corroborate Sandy's story?” She glared at Mom. “I mean, if he doesn't lawyer up, right, Mrs. Peareson?”

More silence. The air was rigged with infrared rays shooting back and forth between Detective Morales and my parents. Any motion, any sound could set off a nuclear explosion. I didn't care.

“I just want my notebook back.” I stood up and moved toward the file folder. “It's mine. You have no right to keep it.”

“It was turned over to us as evidence.” Detective Morales smirked. “Voluntarily, I might add.” She wrapped an arm around the file containing my notebook, and tossed a business card on the table. “I think we're through here. All of my contact information is on the card if you need anything. I'll be happy to show you out.”

“Come on, Sandy,” Dad said. “Let's go.” He took me by the arm.

But I wasn't ready to go. Not without my notebook. I shook free of Dad's grasp. “I'm not leaving without my notebook. It's mine, and I never said you could have it.” I grabbed at the file under Detective Morales' arm.

In one swift movement, Detective Morales seized my right hand with her left hand, dropped the file, and stuck her right forearm behind my left elbow nearly launching me into a front flip. “No!” I screamed and tried to twist away. But she pivoted, and forced me to the floor. My feet flew out from under me, so my forehead absorbed most of the impact. I could hear my father shouting as the darkness slowly closed in around me.

When I finally opened my eyes, I had an icepack on my forehead and a crowd of people hovering over me. “Are you okay, Sandy?” asked a faraway voice I didn't recognize. My head pounded as my eyes searched for Mom and Dad. I tried to get up.

“Just lie still now,” a man said. “We're going to take you to the hospital and let them have a look at that goose egg on your fore-head. “Can you wave to me with your left hand?” I waved. “How about the right one?” I waved again, this time with my right hand. “Can you move both your feet?” I must have succeeded because the man said, “Good. Very Good.”

They put me on a gurney and loaded me into an ambulance. They let Mom ride with me. “Dad will meet us there,” she said. The nice thing about traveling in an ambulance is that you get there quickly and you don't waste any time in the hospital waiting area, either. They wheeled me right into a little room where a nurse unhooked me from one set of tubes, and immediately hooked me up to another.

“The doctor will want a CT scan to rule out a skull fracture and intracranial hemorrhage,” the nurse told Mom. You can wait here. It won't take too long.”

I closed my eyes as they wheeled me back out of the room and down a hallway. “Can you hear me Sandy?” the nurse asked. I can't let you go to sleep until after the doctor has evaluated the CT scan.

I opened my eyes. “I'm tired,” I whispered. I closed my eyes again.

“Sandy?” The nurse shook me a little. “Open your eyes, Sandy.” She shined a flashlight into my eyes, first one and then the other. “Your pupils look good,” she said. “Do you feel anything other than tired?” she asked.

“I have an awful headache.” I mumbled.

“I can get you something for that,” the nurse replied. “Anything else?”

“I could use about five minutes in the bathroom.”

The nurse raised her eyebrows. “I can't let you off the gurney yet.” Then she smiled. “Have you ever used a bedpan?”

I shook my head. “I can wait.” The thought of having her place some cold pan under my butt and help me go in it was beyond embarrassing.

“There's really nothing to it, and there's no telling how long you'd have to wait. Let me warm one up for you.”

I covered my eyes with the backs of my hands and braced myself for all of the humiliation that most certainly lay ahead.

I don't know what they found in the CT scan, but the doctor decided to admit me to the hospital overnight for observation. My parents didn't seem to want to talk about it. “Just get some rest now,” they said. “We can talk about it later.”