Free The Last Good Girl by Allison Leotta Page A

met her before, but I’ve heard her name. She’s been around forever. She’s old-school Title IX, like, more prepared to demand a girls’ volleyball team than to sort out rapes. Her office was bright and pretty and smelled nice, and maybe that’s why this time I didn’t say it was “a friend.” I said it was me. Not President Shapiro’s daughter, me. I didn’t tell her my name. I just said, “This happened to me.” First person. A girl who’s sitting in front of you. I told her the full story. She listened and nodded and offered me a box of tissues and a bowl of Jolly Ranchers when I cried.
    But you know what? In the end, Yolanda was even worse than the police. She asked if I played any sports, and I told her, yeah, I was on the soccer team in high school. And she smiled and said that rape was sort of like a sports game, that I should look back on the night and try to figure out if there was anything I could have done differently. You know, did I drink too much? I’m eighteen, underage drinking is illegal, so I have to admit I kind of contributed to what happened, don’t I? Maybe I drank so much I was in a blackout, not drugged? Perhaps I could have chosen not to go upstairs with Dylan? All in this vaguely British voice, and a tight, prim smile. Yolanda said I should simply think about how I could’ve done things differently, and “use that knowledge going forward.”
    In her mind, this was my fault. If I’d only behaved like the proper young lady Yolanda Skanadowski was in 1952, or whatever, I wouldn’t have been raped. She seemed more worried about what I did than what he did.
    I knew it would be hard to face Dylan. His frat brothers. My classmates. Kids can be mean, you know? I’m afraid of being judged, blackballed, laughed at. But being slapped down by the school, which is supposed to protect me? That was a surprise.
    I guess that’s what stings most—getting punched by someone I thought was supposed to be on my side. If a bully hits you, your body hurts. If a friend hits you, your soul hurts.
    When I went back outside, Fenwick jumped up, put his paws on my chest, and kept licking my face. Maybe he was just happy to see me. Or maybe he liked the salty taste of my tears.

8
    B y the time Mrs. and Mr. Shapiro were carted off to the jail and hospital, respectively, it was two A.M. Anna was exhausted, but there was no time to stop and sleep. Every minute that passed was a barrier separating her from the likelihood of finding Emily alive. So she and Sam got back in the Durango and drove to Emily’s dormitory.
    As they drove, Anna called Jack. “Things have gotten messy.” She described her night so far.
    â€œSo,” Jack said slowly. “The suspect assaulted you, you assaulted him back, and the victim’s mother assaulted her father. It has been a busy night.”
    â€œI’m sorry.” Anna’s chest was tight with the urgency of finding this girl, and the feeling that things were only getting worse.
    â€œYou’re not the one who needs to be sorry,” he said. “I want to punch him myself.”
    â€œI didn’t want drama. I just want to find the girl.” Anna was relieved that she wasn’t in trouble. Sometimes, with Jack, she felt like she was a kid and he was her parent. A benevolent, logical, loving parent, but still. She wondered if many young women felt that way about their lovers. Ex-lovers. Whatever.
    â€œI’m not surprised by the drama,” Jack said. “Case like this, emotions are running high. But I’d put money on President Shapiro asking not to press charges.”
    â€œHe’s gonna need stitches. A lot of stitches. There was so much blood.”
    â€œHead wounds tend to bleed a lot. But this is a man who doesn’t like bad publicity. He’ll want to keep this as quiet as possible, believe me. Plus, their daughter is missing. If anything