Free What We Saw by Aaron Hartzler Page A

“She’s playing Sandy.”
    Christy glances up from her phone. “Wyatt’ll look great in a poodle skirt.” She snorts with laughter at her own joke as Wyatt plugs in the mic and steps to the podium. “Testing, testing, one-two-three.” He gives Principal Hargrove a thumbs-up.
    There is a loud whistle—a catcall from behind us. A group of the varsity Buccaneers is filing into the bleachers. Reggie Grant shouts up at Wyatt to “Shake it, baby . ” There are jeers and cheers, groans and shouts, taunts of “fag” and “fabulous.”
    â€œSeriously?” Christy snickers. “We’re supposed to believe that he’s in love with Sandy? Wyatt would run off with one of the other T-Birds the first chance he got.”
    â€œUh-huh, ’cause John Travolta’s just as straight as they come,” says Rachel.
    â€œWhat?” Christy doesn’t get it.
    â€œDo a search on TMZ,” says Lindsey. “We’ll wait.”
    â€œLook,” says Christy, “I’m just saying that Danny Zuko in that movie was way more butch than Wyatt will ever be.”
    â€œJesus, Christy,” I say, sighing. “You’re way more butch than Wyatt will ever be.” Her arm shoots across Rachel’s lap, and I narrowly avoid the punch she aims at my shoulder.
    â€œTake that back!”
    â€œIf the shoe fits . . .” Rachel giggles.
    â€œ. . . buy it.” Lindsey finishes for her.
    â€œThis seat taken?” Ben is pointing at the space next to Lindsey.
    I shake my head. “All yours.”
    Lindsey stands and switches places with me. I don’t even have to ask her. This, I believe, is the true meaning of friendship. Ben puts his arm around me as he sits down and pulls us a little closer as Principal Hargrove takes the stage. Ms. Speck stands next to him.
    â€œWe wanted to let you know the facts about what happened today in the cafeteria.” Principal Hargrove is wearing a burgundy blazer made of a fabric that does not contain a single natural fiber. There is enough polyester in this jacket to make it shine beneath the stage lights. The rumor is he bought it in 1991 and has kept it in his office ever since for the sole purpose of these assemblies and impromptu parent meetings. He pauses and runs a hand across his forehead as if patting his bangs into place. He’s bald, but he didn’t used to be, I suppose.
    Given enough time, everything changes.
    â€œIt is important that when events like this one occur, you get your information directly from the source.” He says this as if it were every day that two policemen storm the cafeteria and arrestfour basketball players the week before the state tournament.
    â€œThese are the facts: Today, four students were taken into custody by the county sheriff for the alleged sexual assault and rape of a female student.” A buzz rips through the assembly. Shouts and murmurs of “who was it” and “that’s bullshit” rise and fall. Principal Hargrove holds up his hands and waits for things to settle down.
    â€œIt’s important to remember that all students are innocent until proven guilty by a court of law. And it is up to me to remind you that the one and only place for that trial to be held is in a courthouse, and not on a blog or a website or in these hallways. We are under strict instructions to protect the victim’s anonymity—”
    â€œToo late,” mutters Christy.
    Rachel shushes her as Principal Hargrove brings Ms. Speck to the microphone. She’s more stylish than most of our other teachers, her crisp white blouse tucked into charcoal gabardine slacks. A sweater the color of a Granny Smith apple is draped across her shoulders, and her dark hair falls to her chin, all one length, a silver streak at her forehead. When her husband left her in New York, Ms. Speck moved to Paris with her son. When her son left for college, she moved