Samantha
That same Wednesday lunch period, I amble through the art studio hallway.
"H-e-e-e-y, Sam," croons Zeke Harrington, N.Y.U's star tennis player.
"Hi?" I say over my shoulder. I'm the only person around, so he must be talking to me.
"Looking good, Sam Baxter," murmurs Johnny Dunn, the unbelievably hot captain of N.Y.U's football team.
I've never had so many people--especially guys--smile and wave and say hi to me. This morning, Jarred Campbell, a brooding senior who rode a vintage German motorcycle to school and was usually too cool to speak to anyone, had insisted on buying me a blueberry muffin out of the vending machine.
And as I walked from first to second period this morning, a small convoy of freshman boys followed. I had come to school prepared to be taunted about the photo, so this was sort of.. unexpected.
When a hand shoots out of the pottery studio, I flinch and let out a small shriek. Will's face materializes at the door. "Psst. Sam!"
I step out of the stream of traffic. "Will. Hey."
"Please come with me?" he asks politely.
"I can't right now." I check my chunky wristwatch. I'll be late for my lunch with Natasha. "How about after school?"
"Nah. This will just take a second." Will darts inside the empty studio and around a maze of desks toward the walk-in kiln. To my surprise, he pushes the kiln's heavy door open and slides inside. Will pokes his blond head back out and grins. "Coming?"
I shrug. Inside the kiln, everything is dark, wooden, and warm--like a sauna. Dozens of pots sat on the shelves. They're not fired yet, so they're still brick red and gooey.
"It's neat in here," I muse softly. I've always liked the wet, earthy smell of raw clay.
When I glance at Will's brown eyes, I'm taken aback by the gleam of seriousness in them.
"Aren't you bothered by what happened yesterday?" he asks. "Don't you feel.. violated?"
I think about it for a moment. "Not particularly. And no one really seems to care."
I notice him staring, so I ask him carefully, "Do you believe it?"
His brown eyes on my blue ones, he answers, "No. I need to hear it from you myself."
I have a flash of Vanessa's tearful face. "Actually.. It's probably wrong to let her off the hook, but my friend, Vanessa.. Her kiss took me by surprise." I hug my arms. "And I feel molested. Do you think I'm reading into it too much?"
Without waiting for an answer, I add in a shaky voice: "When I was younger, I was molested without consent, yet I neither said yes or no but I didn't know what to do.
"I kind of just froze up, and I let it happen. A lot of people would say "that's a pile of BS" but for the people who doubt when a woman says they were inappropriately touched, don't tell them they are lying, it's like being not asked if you're alive.
"It's a serious issue and many of us have to go under therapy for years at most just to feel more confident in ourselves and not dirty."
A/N: Don't EVER discredit a person who has been through a situation like that. You should watch what you say around victims of this kind of stuff. It's dirty and disgusting.
And for all the people who say it's not rape, it's rape if you don't like it, people.
"Now, no matter what I say, everyone will think I'm lying. And if I say that I like guys, or I try to date one, they'll only accuse me of using him as a coverup. It's a lose-lose situation."
