Broken Knight (All Saints High 2)

I hung my head, drawing in a breath. I had to admit, she was unlucky more than she was an asshole.

“I dug into my memory, trying to figure out what happened. Then I remembered the party. I went and confronted my friend’s older brother, the one who threw the party, but he was cagey and insisted no one had touched me, said I was making it up because I wanted to pin the pregnancy on some frat boy with a rich daddy. The news about my pregnancy broke. My parents were crushed. They couldn’t show their faces at church. Neither could I. I dropped out of cheer. My grandmamma stopped taking my calls, crossed the street when she saw me walking by. My friends took a step back. Nobody wanted my reputation to rub off on them. Two weeks after I became public enemy number one, I found a note in my locker. Anonymous.”

She reached for her bag and hunted inside it, producing her purse. She sniffed as she explained as an afterthought, “I take it with me everywhere I go. Every time I think about you, Knight, and feel like I don’t deserve to live in this world for giving you up, I read this. Horrible, I know. I’m not proud of it either, you understand? Just because something bad happened to me, I went and did something bad to my baby. Only I always knew I was protecting my boy. I was introduced to Rosie and Dean before I was sure I was giving you up. The adoption agency made the connection, and giving you up became bearable, because I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, what kind of mother Rosie was going to be.”

Dixie handed me a crumpled piece of paper. It was yellow, torn. Dissolving at my fingertips like fairy dust. I unfolded it with careful precision, knowing how much it meant to her.

Dix,

They would never tell you, so I guess I will.

You were roofied, girl. Dragged into one of the upstairs bedrooms when things at the party started getting out of hand. There were five guys. All of them from a Dallas college. Didn’t give their names. They had just lost an important football game, they said, but who knew what division they were, who they played for? There was shouting and screaming inside the room you were in. Your friends…maybe like a couple of them, tried to open the door, but other guys kept pushing them away. No one saw because there was a fight going on downstairs. Your little friends were damn scared, girl. Too damn scared. By the time the three girls threatened to call the police, it was too late. They already did the deed, and everyone knew. But the girls didn’t want to get in trouble with the boys, and telling you would mean facing what they did.

I know it’s too little, too late, but it was not your fault, Dix.

It was not.

Remember, the only way you could have prevented it was not showing up to that party.

I hope your parents will find it in their hearts to understand what happened, because it kills me to see you so sad.

Smile, Dix, maybe something good will grow out of this.

P.S. Please don’t try to trace this letter back to anyone. You’ll never find out who I am.

—Sorry.

I handed it back to her, the air pregnant with whatever response I was going to give her. I was still undecided on what I wanted to say. Frankly, I didn’t want to say anything, but I knew I had to at some point.

She stood and offered me her hand. I didn’t take it, but followed her to my feet. So. My dad was a rapist with rapist friends. She was undoubtedly a victim. She’d stayed here during the holidays because of my miserable ass. She gave me up because she didn’t know I existed until it was too late. She probably would have gotten rid of me with a hanger if she could have. Didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore.

I blew out air, fishing for the joint in my back pocket.

“I need to get back to the hospital.” I started for the stairs leading to the promenade, shaking with rage and humiliation and all-consuming guilt for not responding to her story.

Dixie ran after me, her footfalls silent on the cool sand.

“In this state? No way I’m letting you.”

“Refresh my memory. When exactly did I ask for permission?”

“Let me give you a ride.”

“No, thanks. Last time someone rode you, I was the result. Didn’t work out too well for me.” I wanted to throw up on myself. But I’d still said it.

“Why are you doing this?”

She was crying now. I’d made her cry. But I couldn’t stop myself.

“Shit, where are my manners? I’m sure you’ve been screwed plenty since then. I’m good.”