Modern Monsters (Entangled Teen) (5 page)

Chapter Six

By Monday morning, everyone knows.

And I say “everyone” because if
I’ve
noticed people are talking about something, then enough people know that it might as well be everyone.

When we get to school, I ask Brett, “Should I try talking to Autumn again?” He laughs and punches my arm.

“You’ve so got a thing for that girl, don’t you?”

I slide open my combo lock to my locker, frowning around the heat rushing to my face. “I d-don’t know what you mean.”

“You’ve already talked to her a couple of times and she hasn’t had anything nice to say. So either you’re a glutton for punishment or you’re just infatuated with her. Which I would totally understand; she’s hot.”

Infatuation:
foolish or all-absorbing passion.

I wouldn’t go that far. Sure, I think Autumn is gorgeous and I like that fierce loyalty of hers, but that doesn’t mean I’m
infatuated
with her. Besides, she hates my guts and I can’t formulate a coherent sentence to her that doesn’t involve Callie, so— “Just meant to s-see how Callie’s doing.”

Brett shrugs. “Frankly, I doubt she’ll say anything to you one way or the other. Didn’t my dad tell you to avoid talking to anyone about the case?”

“Yeah,” I agree sullenly, shutting the locker door and slouching against it. Brett pats my shoulder with a sympathetic smile before turning to head to class. I wish I could handle things the way Brett always does, with this effortless sort of confidence that everything is going to be all right. Me? I lose sleep and can’t focus on tying my own shoes, let alone struggling to make sure I don’t have a nervous breakdown between now and graduation.

While I head to class, I open my ears to the people around me instead of trying to tune them out like usual. In particular, I pay attention to Aaron’s group near the bathroom, which consists of five other guys who all know Brett but probably couldn’t tell you my name.

Yet the moment I come within hearing range, Aaron stops in midsentence and makes no move to hide that he’s staring at me. His friends turn to do the same and I keep my gaze on the floor, mesmerized by the way my shoelaces hit the linoleum with each step. I don’t get far when Aaron calls out, “Hey, Vic.”

My shoes squeak to a halt. I feel like my body has shrunken in on itself, like my shoulders could collapse forward and fold into my rib cage and I could sink into the floor, because when I turn around, all six of them are looking right at me. Aaron smiles. “C’mere a sec, would you?” he asks, inclining his head toward the bathroom.

This is a bad idea. I shove my hands as deep into my pockets as I can, taking a step away. “I’ve g-got to get to c-class…”

Patrick Maloney, who I last saw at the party heading upstairs with Jacob and Eric, moves toward me and swings an arm around my shoulders. “It’ll only take a minute. Aaron wanted to let you in on something the police told him.”

I know the cops have been speaking to anyone who was at the lake house, so it’s plausible Aaron knows something that I don’t—especially since his brother was the one who threw the event. Still, there’s a heavy ball of dread rolling around in my stomach as Patrick ushers me into the bathroom, and that feeling does not lessen when I’m standing there against the wall with all of them around me and Aaron is a foot or so in front of me, no longer smiling.

“I heard the cops brought you in for some kind of test.”

Where did he hear that from? Only Brett knew, and there’s no way he would’ve said anything. Unless—no… Mom wouldn’t have said anything to Ruthie Biggs, would she? They’re friends, but no way. What’s more, Ruthie wouldn’t have told her son when she has to know he’s got a big mouth and wouldn’t keep it to himself. Right? I have to swallow hard to make my dry mouth cooperate. “Uh, y-yeah.”

He crosses his arms, legs posed slightly apart like he’s trying to make himself look casual and instead comes across as intimidating. “Huh. What’d they have you do, jerk off into a plastic cup?”

“N-no,” I mutter, looking down at the floor. “It’s r-really none of your b-business. I’ve got to go to class.”

Trying to move past them is a bold move and it backfires. Patrick slams the palm of his hand into my chest, shoving me effortlessly back to the wall where a light switch jabs uncomfortably into my shoulder blade. “You screw a girl while she’s unconscious and that’s all you’ve got to say for yourself?” He pushes me again.

My vision is blurring. I can’t seem to get a proper breath in. I am teetering on the verge of an anxiety attack and no longer am I stuttering…I simply can’t speak.

“Easy, Patrick. Come on now, Vic,” Aaron chides, “let’s hear it. Tell us what happened. Make it a good enough story and maybe we won’t tell the cops. Honestly, I didn’t think you had it in you, but I guess if it’s the only way you were ever gonna get laid…”

My fingers bend, curling into tight fists just itching to hit him. Six against one aren’t great odds, though, and I’m already shaking. I just want to get away. Patrick pushes me again, and again I hit the light switch, but this time, I slide down a fraction of an inch until the switch clicks off…and thanks to the lack of windows in the bathroom, we’re plummeted into darkness. I take the chance while they’re startled and cursing and searching for the switch to duck beneath Patrick’s reaching arms and dart out the door.

I don’t wait to see if they’ll follow. I run down the hall, around the corner, and into the adjoining halls where Callie’s locker is because I’m hoping they won’t think to look for me here. In retrospect, once I reach the courtyard near the library and I’m trying to catch my breath as I drop to a bench, I realize I could have gone to class. I would’ve been plenty safe there.

No, I don’t want to face anyone in class. I want to know how Aaron found out about the police taking me to the clinic. I want to know why my mother would tell anyone that kind of information…even her best friend. She had to have known what a terrible idea it would be. Because now if Aaron and his friends know, the information is fair game. Anyone can know that the police think I raped Callie Wheeler.

It takes me thirty minutes to sneak off campus past the guy who monitors the parking lot and get home. If I were eighteen I could sign myself out of school for the day, but I’m not there quite yet. Mom is at work still and will be for another two hours, and I’m cool with that. I’m exhausted and I haven’t been sleeping well over at Brett’s, despite the comfortable bed. The couch is familiar and with the TV on low and my bare feet kicked up onto the coffee table, it doesn’t take me long to doze off.

The sound of Mom’s keys in the door jolts me from a dream I can only vaguely remember, wherein I was back at the party, trying to will myself to go upstairs to check on Callie again…like doing so could prevent all of this from happening.

I sit up and shake off the sight of those stairs in my brain, twisting to look as Mom comes in through the front door. She pauses when she sees me, and then sighs and slips off her shoes by the door and hangs up her keys. “You didn’t tell me you were going to be home.”

“I live here.” Meaning I shouldn’t have to give her warning.

She gives me a sour look, stepping into the living room. “Why weren’t you in school?”

Yeah, I sort of figured she’d know. They would have called to report my absence. “Bad day.”

“That’s not a reason future employers are going to accept, Victor.” Mom stops at the end of the couch, crossing her arms with a frown.

I look down at my hands. “Um. D-did you tell Ruthie Biggs wh-what was going on?”

Mom is silent long enough that I immediately know the answer. “Why?”

Knowing she totally spread my business around makes me want to crawl under the couch and not ask anything further. “B-because Aaron and all of his friends know. They were asking about it.”

“I really don’t think Ruthie would have told her son anything I said to her in confidence,” Mom scoffs.

“No one else
knew
, Mom.”

“Well, it wasn’t her. Now drop it.” She turns to walk into the kitchen.

I should drop it, but I don’t want to. Normally when Mom gets mad, I’m quick to back down and change the subject, but now I’m being attacked from almost every other aspect of my life. The least my mother could do is be on my side. That being said, I get up to follow after her. “Wh-what exactly did you tell her?”

Mom keeps her back to me, setting her purse on the island counter and opening the fridge to find herself something for dinner. “I don’t see why that matters or why it’s any of your business. Remember, you got yourself into this mess. You have no idea what it’s like to have everyone looking at me like they have.”

Mom and I have fought plenty before. Or rather, her passive-aggressive tendencies have tripped even my temper and I’ve snapped at her until she was reduced to tears, and by some turn of events, I was always the one in the wrong who ended up apologizing whether it was actually my fault or not. I’m not sure Mom has ever said sorry to me. For anything. Yet I’ve been apologizing all my life.

I’m not feeling in a very apologetic mood at the moment. “What
you’re
going through? Are you kidding?”

She turns to me finally, a package of defrosted chicken and a bag of salad in her hand. Her expression is neutral but the typical sheen of tears in her eyes is present, telling me she’s about to let loose the waterworks. “I could lose my job over this, Victor. What were you thinking? Haven’t I raised you better than that?”

My jaw falls open but the words won’t come beyond, “Wh-what?”

“I taught you to be a gentleman. I told you
never
to touch anyone unless she asked you to, didn’t I?” The first few tears begin to slip down her cheeks and my gut twists. Yeah. I have been raised like that. It’s always been common sense, to be gentle, to be patient and kind, and although I’m not perfect, I like to think I try my best. I’ve never hit anyone. I’m not intentionally mean.

“Mom,” I start, taking a step closer. Maybe I
am
being selfish. I’ve been so wrapped up in what this meant for me that I didn’t stop to think what people will do or say to
her
. Because if kids from school who were questioned know I’m a suspect, then their parents know, and our town is not all that big.

Like I’ve done a hundred times before, I try to reach out to hug her, never knowing the response I’m going to get. Will she bury her teary face against my shoulder and sob, or will she turn away? It’s always a guessing game. Sometimes my apologies aren’t enough to make her happy.

She steps back. “Don’t touch me.”

That’s a new one. I go still, letting my arms fall to my sides. Mom hiccups and wipes at her eyes, trying to look stern and only succeeding in looking more of a mess than she is.

“Go to your room, Victor. I don’t want to look at you right now.”

Ah. That part isn’t new. Not really, anyway.
I don’t want to look at you.
That started around my early teens and the first time the words left my mother’s mouth, my heart about shattered. There is nothing anyone has ever said to me in all my life that aches quite like that.

Which is why I say nothing. I retreat to my room as instructed and sit on my bed, fingers in my hair, eyes closed, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when my mom stopped loving me.

Chapter Seven

Tuesday morning, I call Sherrigan and he tells me, “The process takes several days, Victor. That’s assuming they don’t have a backlog at the lab. And let me tell you, they
always
have a backlog.”

Come Friday, I’ve still heard nothing. With my restraining order hearing approaching, I had been hoping I’d have some good news by now. I try calling Sherrigan again as Brett and I get to school, but no one answers. I close my eyes and drop my head back against the passenger’s seat of Brett’s car. He’s parked outside of school but hasn’t abandoned me to go inside. I can sense his eyes locked onto me worriedly while I hang up with a defeated sigh.

Any moment, the lab could be sending my DNA results to the detectives, and they’re sure to hear before even Mr. Mason does. Amjad told me when I went in to work last night that he’s never seen me look at my phone so much in all the time he’s known me. I still can’t bring myself to tell him what’s actually going on. If he wants to believe I’m having girl problems, I’m okay with that. Work is the one place I can go where I get to pretend to be normal.

“Nothing?” Brett asks when I lower my phone.

I shake my head and get out of the car. Brett follows, but thankfully doesn’t press me for info. I can still sense his concerned gaze on me, though. That’s just Brett for you. Maybe he isn’t the greatest at verbally expressing that he cares, but he has his ways of showing it. The only fights he’s ever been in growing up were ones where he was defending me, and the last few days, when we walk down the halls, I feel like he’s tense and ready to snap at anyone who says anything to me.

We don’t speak as we head inside. Brett goes his way and I go mine, though he does fist-bump my shoulder gently before he goes. He prefers to keep his books on him at all times, and I prefer to cram whatever I can into my locker and get it as needed. There are usually people getting into their lockers all around me at any given time, so I don’t notice her at first. Not until I realize she’s leaning her shoulder against my locker and staring right at me when I lift my eyes.

“Uh, h-hey Autumn.”

Autumn has her hair twisted up into a messy bun today. Her leggings are slashed at the knees, probably violating dress code, and her thigh-length tank top has a skull and crossbones on it with the disclaimer underneath:
this is not gang-related
. Cute.

She doesn’t smile. “I want to talk to you.”

Great start to my morning. Somehow I doubt she’s here to apologize for treating me like a leper. “O-okay. Here?”

“Outside.” She inclines her chin in the direction of the nearest double doors leading outside to a section of picnic tables where some students eat lunch. I follow her to a table where I remain standing, afraid any sudden movements will provoke her. She sits on the table itself, feet planted on the bench, elbows on her knees, and stares at me. “So.”

“S-so?”

“You probably haven’t heard yet, since Callie just found out less than an hour ago…but the DNA results came back.”

My heart leaps into my throat. “Okay.”

“They didn’t find any of you in, like—” She gestures awkwardly. “I mean, nothing in her rape kit matched up with you.”

I feel like someone has pricked my side and let all the tense air out of me. My eyes close while I take a deep breath to reflate, feeling lighter and more confident this time. “That’s g-good, right? If they have s-someone else’s DNA—”

“They don’t,” she cuts in. “When Callie came back from the party, she scrubbed herself down more than once. By the time I talked her into going to the cops, there wasn’t really anything left.” Her eyes narrow. “So, you know, it’s not like you’re off the hook.”

My shoulders begin to sink as I remember Mr. Mason telling me that a lack of physical evidence just means it could be Callie’s word against mine in front of a jury. “Oh. Then…why are you telling me this?”

“Because I wanted to see your reaction.” She examines her polished nails and I get the feeling she’s purposely avoiding looking at me now. That’s a first. “You didn’t seem surprised.”

“That’s b-because I told you, I didn’t do it.” The first bell rings for class. Autumn doesn’t seem in a hurry to move. If I play hooky a second day, Mom is going to murder me. “I really need to go…”

Autumn heaves a sigh and waves dismissively. There is no anger in her this time. No sense that she’s going to lash out and grind my face into the concrete. Instead she seems almost…defeated? Sad? I wonder how Callie felt when she got the news. If she still fully believes it was me or if the lack of evidence has left some doubt in her mind. I wish I could talk to her, but the restraining order kind of prevents that. Hell, Mr. Mason wouldn’t even want me talking to Autumn, but I can’t help it.

I should be going to class; I have less than a minute to be in my chair. And yet…instead I’m slowly letting my backpack slide to the ground and I’m sitting next to Autumn on the table so that we’re hip to hip. Neither of us says anything because it’s a bit awkward and I don’t know what to say that would be comforting. I don’t even know that my presence will do anything more than irritate her, but I have this gnawing need to make her feel better, and if this is all I can do…

“It’s only been a week, but everyone’s talking about her like she’s some kind of ghost,” Autumn eventually says. “At first, our creative writing teacher asked every day if I would bring Callie her homework, and now he doesn’t ask about her at all. Sometimes he just looks at her empty seat like…like she’s dead or something. People talk about her in past tense and I hate it.”

I scuff my heel against the bench. “Will she come b-back to school now?”

She shrugs. “At some point, she’s gonna have to. I mean, for finals if nothing else, or she isn’t going to walk with the rest of the seniors. But every time she thinks about it, it just…freaks her out, you know?”

Can’t blame her, but I also don’t know what to say.

Autumn sits with me until long after the last bell has rung. When she gets up, it’s all at once; still one moment and then sweeping up her backpack and sliding off the table to begin walking away without a word to me. No “thank you,” but no “piss off,” either. Maybe this is an improvement.

I don’t know why, but I don’t tell Brett about my conversation with Autumn. It seems like something personal meant just for the two of us, and I don’t feel the need to spread Callie’s—or Autumn’s—business with anyone. For that matter, I didn’t tell him about the incident with Aaron and his friends in the bathroom, either. This is my problem, and Brett has enough on his mind with finals and college applications to have to worry about me…again, like he always has.

But news apparently travels fast even when I keep tight-lipped, because at lunch he stares at me, avoiding looking at Aaron when he passes by, and asks, “When were you going to tell me?”

“About what?”

“You know what.” He glances askance at Aaron’s table. “I heard what happened and I was going to wait for you to say something, but…”

I refuse to lift my head. “N-nothing to tell. I just, you know, he w-wanted to talk to me.”

“With a group of his friends?”

A frown pulls at my features. “H-how did you even find out?”

Brett gives me a long look. Ah. Right. Someone probably saw them drag me into the bathroom, or maybe Aaron himself said something. “Tell your mom, man. She can talk to Aaron’s mom so he stops being a dick.”

“Mom doesn’t care.”

“She’s your
mother
. Of course she cares.”

I pick at the crust on my sandwich. No response for that. On a basic level, yes, I know my mother loves me because she’s my mother. We used to be close. She would read me bedtime stories and tell me how much she loved me, and that I was her reason for getting out of bed in the morning. She went on my field trips with my classes. Packed my lunches with extra treats. Got up early on Sundays to make me blueberry French toast before church.

To this day, I’m still trying to figure out what it is I did to make her distant. If there was some defining moment that changed our relationship. Now, as always, I draw a complete blank. It’s not like she woke up one day and started ignoring my existence; it didn’t happen all at once. It was a gradual process, until I finally realized that things had drastically changed.

Brett nudges my foot under the table. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Lots of things. I’m not telling him how I’m hardly sleeping at night and how, despite that Mr. and Mrs. Mason are great, I miss being at home in my own room. I’m not telling him how exhausted I feel after sitting down to conversations with Mr. Mason, or how the hardest part about all this isn’t how everyone else has treated me, but just that Mom doesn’t believe I’m innocent.

What I tell him instead is an attempt to focus on the positive so all the things I don’t want to say can remain tucked safely in the recesses of my mind. “The DNA came back.”

Brett’s spine straightens. “Really? So you’re cleared, right? What did they find?”

“N-nothing of mine,” I say, forcing a weak smile, and purposely leaving out the fact that a lack of physical evidence doesn’t necessarily mean I’m cleared.

He taps his plastic fork against his lunch tray. “Well, duh. Someone else’s, then?”

“I d-don’t think so.” Not that Autumn told me, anyway. She said they didn’t find anything because of Callie washing any viable evidence, but she could very well have made that up.

“Well…that’s a weight off you, isn’t it?” He grins. “No evidence means they can’t really prosecute you for rape.”

I try to smile in return, despite not being so sure. Like Autumn said, I’m not off the hook yet. Though some part of me does feel a little lighter, and that feeling lasts long after I’ve gone to work that night and returned to Brett’s, where Mr. Mason is there to greet me with a smile as he pulls me into his office. Brett follows us and this time, Mr. Mason allows it.

“Good news,” he says brightly, and proceeds to reiterate the information we already knew. Hearing it again, especially coming from him and not from Autumn, makes it sound better, more hopeful. He must be in a good mood, because he doesn’t tell Brett to leave so we can talk in private like he usually does.

“It’s great,” I say when he’s done, even though I don’t entirely know what it means for me. Thankfully, Mr. Mason is good at explaining every step of this process so I haven’t been left too in the dark.

He takes a seat and we sit in the stuffed chairs across from his desk as he explains. “First, they don’t have much to convince a judge for a restraining order anymore. This temporary one will stay in effect until your hearing on the sixth, but they’ll probably have to drop it.”

Brett rolls his eyes. “It’s not like Vic would’ve gone to talk to her anyway. They don’t have any classes together.”

“True. But when Callie was ready to return to school, if they had gotten a permanent restraining order into effect, Vic would’ve been the one forced into switching schools.”

Oh. I hadn’t known that. Frankly, I’m not so sure I’d survive going to school without Brett. The idea in and of itself is terrifying.

Mr. Mason continues. “They obviously have no physical evidence to charge you on. A party full of drunk kids doesn’t make for reliable eyewitnesses, and since there are so many varying stories about when you went upstairs and came back down again, they’re struggling for a leg to stand on.”

“Even w-with Callie identifying me?”

“The wording she used is pretty sketchy.” He rummages through his papers to locate a stack in particular. “She told the detectives that she remembers you were present at some point when you took her to the bedroom, but that she couldn’t say with undeniable certainty you were the one raping her. Your face is just the last one she saw and she remembered hearing your stutter. If she reiterates that to a jury, it isn’t going to sound convincing. Alternatively, if she changes her story, her credibility is shot.”

Brett smiles wide and pats me on the back. I feel like this should make me happier than it does. Yeah, I’m ecstatic that this is good news for me, but… “W-what do the police do now to f-find out who did it?”

“Depends.” Mr. Mason shrugs. “If the detectives had their way, they’d just close the case. But if Callie’s family wants to keep pushing or if they get the media involved, then the police can press charges anyway—I don’t think they’ll get anywhere with that—or they’ll find someone else they can pin this on just to put everyone’s mind at ease. They have the other guys from the party that they’re questioning, but again, no evidence, no easy suspects. There isn’t a lot they can do to
really
find who did it, shy of someone stepping forward with a new story or an admission. They’ve taken multiple statements from several people, ran their tests, and found nothing. They may mark the case as cold until—if and when—they find some other evidence. Cases like this aren’t taken very seriously, though. They might think digging deeper is too much of a hassle.”

It’s just like Autumn said. Now Callie is going to be stuck not having any clue who raped her. If she’s going to pass him by on the street. If it could happen again, because he got away with it once. If she isn’t fully convinced it was me, how can she sleep at night knowing the real rapist is still out there?