Slide by Jill Hathaway Read Free Book Online Page A

at a party. Some random guy took pictures of her naked body and posted them all over the internet. Everyone saw—even her parents.
    Come on, Samantha , I thought. I know we’re in a fight, but how can you stand here and not do anything? How?
    That’s when I returned.
    I awoke to sounds of a scuffle. My body was laid out on one of those uncomfortable wooden benches in the boys’ locker room, my dress around my waist. Two struggling figures became clearer until I figured out it was Scott and that guy, Archie.
    Archie got a good punch in, and it caught Scott right under his chin. Scott’s arms pinwheeled, looking for something to grab on to, but there was nothing. He fell hard on his back, groaning and looking like he wouldn’t be getting up for a while.
    Turning to me, Archie held out a hand. “Come on,” he said, his voice gruff. “Let’s get you out of here.” I let him lead me out of the locker room, up the stairs, and outside into the cool night air. He folded me into his car, and I let him because I wasn’t thinking about much of anything but how I needed a shower.
    On Monday morning, I overheard a cheerleader whisper to another sophomore that I’d gone down on Scott in the boys’ locker room at the dance. “Who told you that?” the sophomore asked. “Samantha,” the cheerleader responded, “so you know it’s true. And then Scott yakked all over the dance floor.” They giggled.
    “Scotch Becker,” they called him. To this day, he goes by a nickname he earned the night he tried to date-rape me. Every time I hear it, I want to vomit.
    After Spanish class, I confronted Samantha. “You saw it,” I said. “You saw Scott dragging me into the locker room, but you just stood there and sipped your punch and didn’t do anything .” My voice was shaky, and I felt like I was going to cry, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
    Samantha stood with her folder clutched to her chest, her lips pressed together. In her eyes, I saw a mixture of anger, regret, and fear . I could tell she was wondering how I knew she saw it all when I was unconscious at the time. She was afraid of me , of what I knew and how I knew it. She turned and scuttled away.
    When I got to lunch that day, Samantha was sitting on Scotch’s lap. Everyone at their table followed me with their eyes as I grabbed a plate and filled it with some spinach leaves and croutons and ranch dressing. I sat at an empty table near the windows. That was when Archie—well, Rollins —sat down across from me. He had a bag of Doritos and a can of Mountain Dew. He looked at me easily, like there was nothing out of the ordinary, like he sat with me every day.
    “What’s up?” he asked, and we’ve been best friends ever since.
    I didn’t tell anyone what happened to me that night. Maybe I should have. Probably I should have. But I didn’t, and even thinking about talking about it makes my skin crawl. It seems easier to pretend it never happened. The problem is . . . it did happen. And I carry it around with me every day of my life.
    I don’t even bother to undress, just lie on top of my covers, replaying my conversation with Rollins over and over again, wishing it had gone a different way. What if I’d told Rollins the truth? What if he’d believed me? Does the fact that I couldn’t be honest with Rollins mean I don’t really value his friendship?
    I sigh and turn onto my left side. The Clockwork Orange poster on my wall is illuminated by the streetlight. I get into a staring contest with it, but it’s no good. The eyeball with the thick black lashes always wins. I haul myself out of bed and pad across the room, to the window. My mother’s old telescope waits for me.
    She loved the stars. Even though she’d majored in English literature, my father said, she took so many classes in astronomy she was able to pick it up as a minor. Though so much about my mother seems intangible now—the way she smelled, the things she’d whisper to me before I