I take a deep breath. One… two… three. I want to tell this girl the truth. That the person she’s painting as her savior is likely the person who attacked her. But I can’t. Not without proof.
“There might be a reason you can’t remember what happened that night,” I say, trying to steer the conversation away from Zoey and back to the party.
“When I got to the hospital, they said there was something in my system. I’ve never done drugs, so I know it’s nothing I took. It’s something someone gave me. You’d think that would make people stop blaming me, but it doesn’t.”
“What happened that night was not your fault.”
Her face melts, as though she’s about to cry again, but she doesn’t. She places her trembling hands on the desk. “Sometimes I think it is. And that’s why I hate coming to school. I hate seeing Adam and talking to my parents. Because I’ve hurt them, too.”
“Darcy, what happened that night was not your fault,” I repeat, standing and walking toward her. “And if you can’t remember what happened, that’s not your fault either.”
I take a seat next to her and feel a strong urge to hug her. I wish there was something I could do to erase her pain. But she doesn’t need contact right now. She needs space. Space to talk, and someone to listen.
She looks at me with scared eyes. “I remember parts of what happened.”
“What do you remember?” I ask, staring at her. If she’s going to tell the truth, I hope she’ll go all the way.
“I… I,” she starts, her eyes darting toward the door. It’s almost like she wants someone to walk in and interrupt. She wants a reason to stop talking.
“Darcy,” I say. “What do you remember from that night?”
She looks back at me with full tears in her eyes. “I didn’t fall,” she says, her voice cracking. “I know someone was deliberately attacking me. I remember trying to fight back.”
She leans forward, covering her mouth with her palms, and cries hard. I’m not sure what to say. I’ve been sure for weeks, but it’s different hearing her say the words. It’s not the first time I’ve watched someone break from baring their soul. Slowly, I raise my arm and rub her trembling back. She flinches but doesn’t push me away. I allow her to cry, getting as much of her grief out as possible.
“Do you remember anything else that happened before the police found you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“It’s like little flashes,” she says. “Which is why it’s just easier to let it go. Pretend my mind is playing tricks on me. Telling people I fell made them stop asking questions, even if they didn’t believe me.”
“But you can’t let it go, Darcy,” I tell her. “You can’t let it go because you know it’s not a trick. You know the memories are real.”
She nods, and just when I think she’s about to cry again, she takes a deep breath. She holds the air for a second, before breathing it out slowly. She appears stronger.
“I remember someone walking me outside. I remember sitting in the grass. And then I was cold, like my dress was being ripped. But someone was still there with me.” She takes another deep breath and stretches her fingers. “And then I remember someone on top of me. I remember someone stabbing my leg. I tried to push them away, I think. Like I said, it’s all little flashes.”
“It’s okay, Darcy,” I soothe. “If someone slipped you something, it explains your memory loss.”
“I don’t remember anything clearly until I was in the hospital. By then, my parents were freaking out. And my phone was blowing up with questions from people at the party. Everything was already so intense. I just wanted to get out of there.”
“Your parents want what’s best for you,” I say, wondering if that’s true.
“Are you going to tell them I remember the attack?”
“Legally, they need to know. But I think it should come from you.”
“How? I’ve spent weeks saying I fell and don’t remember anything. I can’t change my story now.”
“You weren’t ready to tell anyone yet,” I tell her. “You’re not changing your story. You’re telling your story for the first time.”
“People won’t see it that way.”
“We can’t control what people see. Just speak your truth,” I tell her, reaching for her hand. “What you’ve told me today took a lot of courage.”
“What do we do now?” she asks.
“I think we should go see Ms. Pam. She’ll know how to handle this from here.”
“But it’s just pointless,” she says. “I can’t tell her who hurt me. I can only say I remember the attack. I have no proof.”
“It doesn’t matter. Now that we know a crime has been committed, people can at least start looking for someone. The police—”
“I don’t want the police involved,” she says, running fingers through her dark mane. “I just want all this to go away.”
I take a deep breath. “I want you to do what makes you comfortable, of course. But you also have to consider other people. If the person who hurt you thinks they got away with it, they might try to hurt someone else.”
For the first time, her eyes aren’t filled with anger or grief. They fill with fear. She doesn’t want her silence to contribute to another person’s pain. “Do you think the police will believe me?”
“I believe you,” I say.
She covers her face again. “Coming forward with this is going to stir up a lot of shit. My parents, Dad especially, will go mad. Adam—”
“Darcy,” I interrupt her. “You can’t allow other people’s reactions to interfere with what you do moving forward. This is about you.”
“I know I don’t want someone else
