Pointe (20 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

WINTER FORMAL.

Decidedly less cheesy than homecoming and more relaxed than prom, yet it's done little to earn my respect over the years.

But Ashland Hills High School takes its dances very seriously, and the specially appointed student council committee starts planning immediately after homecoming, more than two months in advance. This year, it's the Friday before the trial. I have three days until it starts, and I think that's as good a reason as any to skip it, but Sara-Kate and Phil aren't having it. Like last year, we go together. Dateless, but not alone.

This year I thought they might go together, as actual dates. I don't think anything has happened beyond the rampant teasing I've witnessed at lunch, at Casablanca's, and virtually anytime the three of us are together. But it's there. It's in the way Phil always jumps to hold the door open for her or give her the best seat at the movies, in the gaze that never stops appreciating her hourglass figure. And it's in Sara-Kate's extra-sweet smiles and the constant patience she reserves for his excessive complaints about the injustices of the world.

So I let my mother take me shopping for a dress and I get ready with Sara-Kate, let her doll me up with the miracles hidden in her makeup case. I feel beautiful when she's all done, when I'm slowly turning in front of her full-length mirror, admiring my long, plum-colored dress with the low back.

“Is Hosea going tonight?” she asks, sitting on the edge of her bed as she looks at me looking at myself.

“Yeah.” I catch her eye in the mirror as I slide my hands over the smooth fabric. “I mean, I think so. He said Ellie wanted to go, so . . .”

“So you're still talking to him. Of course.” She gives a quick nod, and I know I shouldn't be offended by that nod, by the way she says “of course,” but I am. And that's exactly why I haven't told Sara-Kate that I slept with him. She doesn't understand, and I don't know how to make her see that he's worth it.

“Are you mad at me for . . . liking him?”

We're still looking at each other in the mirror. She clasps her hands in her lap, glances briefly toward the window. The night is black and cold behind her white lace curtains. We're all going to freeze tonight because nobody likes to wear their coats over pretty dresses and fancy suits. I hold my breath as I wait for her to respond.

“I'm not mad at you, Theo,” she says to my reflection. “I just think you can do better. You deserve someone who doesn't have to hide his relationship with you.”

I don't know what to say to that, so I look away from her. Step away from the mirror.

Two seconds later, her arms are around me, in a hug from behind. She slips her chin into the nook between my neck and shoulder. “But I still love you, and I want you to be happy.”

We stand like that for a while, and I feel so good wrapped up in Sara-Kate love, and I wonder if she'll feel the same way about me if she finds out about Chris.

• • •

I think Phil is going to stroke out when he sees Sara-Kate in her evening finery. Honestly, his eyeballs nearly pop from their sockets behind the black-framed glasses he's donning for the occasion. For good reason. Sara-Kate's hair is the whitest shade of platinum blond, a stark contrast to the navy chiffon dress that hugs her hips. Her lips are painted ruby red and she looks like a modern-day version of Marilyn Monroe.

“You look . . .
Wow
” is all he can say as she approaches.

“Is that the official Philip Muñoz Seal of Approval?” Sara-Kate teases, her mouth turning up in a wide smile. She touches the rhinestone barrette clipped to the front of her hair.

“Yeah.” He gives a lopsided smile of his own, a smile so goofy, it looks foreign on Phil. “Something like that.”

He tells me I look good, too, and I can't stop wishing it were Hosea saying it instead.

Everyone usually goes to a nice restaurant to eat dinner before the dance. Like Rizzo's, the fancy Italian place with an actual maître d' at the front. They make reservations and take their parents' credit cards and try to sneak glasses of wine with their fake IDs.

We go to Pizza Bazaar, which is hardly fancy enough to be considered a restaurant. It basically consists of a long counter with bar stools at one end, a few booths, and some wobbly-legged tables scattered around the black-and-white tile floor. The lighting is bad and the pizza is just okay. But it's empty and affordable and it makes Phil and Sara-Kate feel as if they're not taking this dance thing as seriously as they are.

Phil goes up to put in our order. Slices of pepperoni and sausage for them and a small house salad—sans dressing—for me. I look down at the laminated menu caked with dried marinara sauce and sticky droplets of soda. The pizza here is mediocre but it's hard to fuck up a slice of cheese, which is what I really wanted to order.

But the less I eat, the stronger I feel. A few flashes of weakness, constant rumbling in my stomach—it's worth it. If I can sustain my willpower with food, I can do anything. Like face Chris in court next week. Decide what I'm going to say. Survive.

Phil takes his time at the soda machine, making sure he gets the precise ratio of ice to soda in each cup.

“Has anyone ever cared so much about a drink?” I ask as I watch him measure out root beer for Sara-Kate.

“I think it's sweet,” she says, and when I look over and make a face, she shrugs. “It's not like any of the other guys at school pay attention to detail. Or anything, really.”

I give her a curious look as Phil hunts for the right-size lids among the stack overflowing to the side of the soda fountain. “Still nothing with you two?”

Her cheeks redden, right on cue. “Nothing declared. But I . . . I think something might happen tonight. Maybe?” She starts to chew on the end of a cherry-red fingernail, then remembers her fresh manicure and stops. “It seems like something could happen. But who's supposed to make the first move?”

“I don't know.” I take a couple of napkins from the silver holder to my side, set them in a neat stack at the end of the table. “It just sort of happens when it feels right.”

She glances at me with anxious eyes as Phil makes his way back to the booth, slowly weaving his way through tables and chairs as he holds carefully to the three sodas. “Is that how it was with you and . . . you know?”

I can't figure out if she's being coy because she doesn't want Phil to overhear or if it's because she hates the idea of us so much that she can't say his name.

“Yes,” I say, looking at her carefully. “It was exactly like that.”

“Like what?” Phil sets the sodas down with a flourish and nary a spill. He takes a bow and we clap for his effort.

“Like you should look into getting a job here, you did such a damn good job with those drinks,” I say, and I wink at Sara-Kate when he's not looking.

Phil shakes his hair out of his eyes and removes his glasses, wipes the lenses on a paper napkin. He's wearing a gray vintage suit with a skinny tie and onyx cuff links. Sharp as always, and as I look at them across the table, I think how good he and Sara-Kate look together with the old-Hollywood glamour thing they have going on.

“You all set for the big trial next week?” he asks.

I reach for my Diet Coke and take a long sip before I answer. “Not particularly.”

“It should be pretty easy, though, right?” Phil jams a straw into his cup. “You just get up there, talk about the morning you saw him and what he said, and then wait for them to prosecute the shit out of that dickbag.” I don't say anything, so he looks at me a little closer and says, “Right?”

“Guys, I . . .” I look around to make sure no one else is listening, but we almost have the entire place to ourselves, except for the older man waiting for a take-out order at the counter, his newspaper spread before him. “Do you think Donovan was abused?”

Phil frowns. “You think he wasn't?”

“I don't know.” I wrap my hands around the cool, smooth paper cup. “Everyone thinks so . . .”

“But?”

“Not
but,
” I say, shaking my head so he won't get the wrong idea. “It's just . . . there's no proof and he's still not talking and what if things didn't go down like we think they did?”

“Okay, but let's think about this.” Phil is using the voice teachers employ when it's clear how wrong you are but they want you to come to the conclusion on your own. “How many kidnapping cases do you know where kids go back to their families, totally unharmed? And I'm not talking about custody battle kidnappings—just regular old cases like this one. Can you remember any? I can't think of
one.
”

“I'm not saying it didn't happen.” I press my palms flat against the table. “I just . . . How will we ever know what happened for sure if Donovan isn't talking?”

“That's what the trial is for,” Phil says, shrugging. “And Donovan's lawyers are trying to make sure they have as much evidence against this guy as possible . . .
because
Donovan isn't talking.”

“Also.” Sara-Kate has been sipping on her root beer this whole time but she looks at both of us now, says, “Also . . . don't you think it means something? I looked up
selective mutism
and he fits the profile. People with PTSD get it all the time.”

“Yeah,” Phil says with finality. He fingers the slanted edge of his black tie. “I don't think there's any other explanation.”

I look down at my soda and nod. This wasn't helpful. Ruthie says Chris raped me every time we were alone in his car, but if that's true, why didn't
I
stop talking? Why didn't someone see the same signs in me?

Rape isn't supposed to be this vague notion. It's a harsh reality and everyone knows what it is, can define it in two seconds flat. Chris didn't rape me.

The stocky guy at the counter calls the number for our order, looks around the place like it could be anyone, even though the take-out guy left and we're the only people in here now.

Phil stands up to grab the tray but stops to look at me first. “I know it sucks thinking about what happened to him,” he says. “It makes me want to strangle that guy myself. But you're just nervous. Even if Donovan doesn't talk . . . things will work out. They have to. No one in their right mind would let that piece of shit go free after what he did. I mean, Jesus. He kept someone's kid for
four years.
”

My phone buzzes in my purse and I've never been more grateful for the interruption. I look down at a new text. A text from Hosea.

Meet me later in the lab?

I thought I was quiet but Sara-Kate catches my little intake of breath, glances over, and asks what I'm looking at.

“Nothing,” I say as I key a message back to him
(What time?)
with shaking fingers. “Just my mom. She wants me to check in with them later.”

Sara-Kate looks away quickly and I know she doesn't believe me, but the truth won't make her happy. And we can't discuss this right now. Because the truth is that my life could change forever in a few days, and I have to live in the moment, and I'm not going to feel bad about it.

Phil returns to the table with our dinner, slides the Styrofoam bowl of salad in front of me. I nod thank you, pretend to be extremely engrossed in the pale mixture of iceberg lettuce and shaved carrots that came from a bag, but really all I'm thinking about is Hosea, wondering when his response will come through.

And when it does:
I'll text you later. Keep your phone on.

I pause for a moment, look at Sara-Kate to see if she's still interested in what I'm doing. But she's examining the pizza with Phil, trying to assess who got the larger slice of sausage and whose piece has more discs of greasy pepperoni.

As soon as I determine they're not paying attention to me, I write back:
What if you get caught?

Not three seconds later:
You're worth it.

I slip the phone back into my purse and try to ignore the gooey slices of pizza in front of them. The smell of salted meat and melted cheese is so damn good, it's offensive. But I touch my fingers to my side, pinch and pinch until the pain makes me forget my hunger.

I spear a forkful of dry salad, let it hover over my bowl for a moment as I consider what Phil said earlier.
I don't think there's any other explanation.
I don't know what to believe, but I do know I have to make the most of this evening.

• • •

The dance is held in the cafeteria, which has been transformed into An Enchanted Evening, according to student council. The room still reeks of boiled meat, but the dance committee hung giant silver stars and sparkly snowflakes from the ceiling so we'll forget about it, at least temporarily.

Everything's a little hazy, though. We smoked a bowl on the drive from Pizza Bazaar to school and I'm feeling it. I almost passed; I don't want to be too out of it when I see Hosea or risk the chance of missing him because I forget to check my phone. But I won't forget—how could I possibly forget when seeing him will be the highlight of the whole evening?