Brandy Colbert - Pointe

But the less I eat, the stronger I feel. A few flashes of weakness, constant rumbling in my stomach—it’s worth it. If I can sustain my willpower with food, I can do anything. Like face Chris in court next week. Decide what I’m going to say. Survive.

Phil takes his time at the soda machine, making sure he gets the precise ratio of ice to soda in each cup.

“Has anyone ever cared so much about a drink?” I ask as I watch him measure out root beer for Sara-Kate.

“I think it’s sweet,” she says, and when I look over and make a face, she shrugs. “It’s not like any of the other guys at school pay attention to detail. Or anything, really.”

I give her a curious look as Phil hunts for the right-size lids among the stack overflowing to the side of the soda fountain. “Still nothing with you two?”

Her cheeks redden, right on cue. “Nothing declared. But I . . . I think something might happen tonight. Maybe?” She starts to chew on the end of a cherry-red fingernail, then remembers her fresh manicure and stops. “It seems like something could happen. But who’s supposed to make the first move?”

“I don’t know.” I take a couple of napkins from the silver holder to my side, set them in a neat stack at the end of the table. “It just sort of happens when it feels right.”

She glances at me with anxious eyes as Phil makes his way back to the booth, slowly weaving his way through tables and chairs as he holds carefully to the three sodas. “Is that how it was with you and . . . you know?”

I can’t figure out if she’s being coy because she doesn’t want Phil to overhear or if it’s because she hates the idea of us so much that she can’t say his name.

“Yes,” I say, looking at her carefully. “It was exactly like that.”

“Like what?” Phil sets the sodas down with a flourish and nary a spill. He takes a bow and we clap for his effort.

“Like you should look into getting a job here, you did such a damn good job with those drinks,” I say, and I wink at Sara-Kate when he’s not looking.

Phil shakes his hair out of his eyes and removes his glasses, wipes the lenses on a paper napkin. He’s wearing a gray vintage suit with a skinny tie and onyx cuff links. Sharp as always, and as I look at them across the table, I think how good he and Sara-Kate look together with the old-Hollywood glamour thing they have going on.

“You all set for the big trial next week?” he asks.

I reach for my Diet Coke and take a long sip before I answer. “Not particularly.”

“It should be pretty easy, though, right?” Phil jams a straw into his cup. “You just get up there, talk about the morning you saw him and what he said, and then wait for them to prosecute the shit out of that dickbag.” I don’t say anything, so he looks at me a little closer and says, “Right?”

“Guys, I . . .” I look around to make sure no one else is listening, but we almost have the entire place to ourselves, except for the older man waiting for a take-out order at the counter, his newspaper spread before him. “Do you think Donovan was abused?”

Phil frowns. “You think he wasn’t?”

“I don’t know.” I wrap my hands around the cool, smooth paper cup. “Everyone thinks so . . .”

“But?”

“Not but, ” I say, shaking my head so he won’t get the wrong idea. “It’s just . . . there’s no proof and he’s still not talking and what if things didn’t go down like we think they did?”

“Okay, but let’s think about this.” Phil is using the voice teachers employ when it’s clear how wrong you are but they want you to come to the conclusion on your own. “How many kidnapping cases do you know where kids go back to their families, totally unharmed? And I’m not talking about custody battle kidnappings—just regular old cases like this one. Can you remember any? I can’t think of one. ”

“I’m not saying it didn’t happen.” I press my palms flat against the table. “I just . . . How will we ever know what happened for sure if Donovan isn’t talking?”

“That’s what the trial is for,” Phil says, shrugging. “And Donovan’s lawyers are trying to make sure they have as much evidence against this guy as possible . . . because Donovan isn’t talking.”

“Also.” Sara-Kate has been sipping on her root beer this whole time but she looks at both of us now, says, “Also . . . don’t you think it means something? I looked up selective mutism and he fits the profile. People with PTSD get it all the time.”

“Yeah,” Phil says with finality. He fingers the slanted edge of his black tie. “I don’t think there’s any other explanation.”

I look down at my soda and nod. This wasn’t helpful. Ruthie says Chris raped me every time we were alone in his car, but if that’s true, why didn’t I stop talking? Why didn’t someone see the same signs in me?

Rape isn’t supposed to be this vague notion. It’s a harsh reality and everyone knows what it is, can define it in two seconds flat. Chris didn’t rape me.

The stocky guy at the counter calls the number for our order, looks around the place like it could be anyone, even though the take-out guy left and we’re the only people in here now.

Phil stands up to grab the tray but stops to look at me first. “I know it sucks thinking about what happened to him,” he says. “It makes me want to strangle that guy myself. But you’re just nervous. Even if Donovan doesn’t talk . . . things will work out. They have to. No one in their right mind would let that piece of shit go free after what he did. I mean, Jesus. He kept someone’s kid for four years. ”

My phone buzzes in my purse and I’ve never been more grateful for the interruption. I look down at a new text. A text from Hosea.

Meet me later in the lab?

I thought I was quiet but Sara-Kate catches my little intake of breath, glances over, and asks what I’m looking at.

“Nothing,” I say as I key a message back to him (What time?) with shaking fingers. “Just my mom. She wants me to check in with them later.”

Sara-Kate looks away quickly and I know she doesn’t believe me, but the truth won’t make her happy. And we can’t discuss this right now. Because the truth is that my life could change forever in a few days, and I have to live in the moment, and I’m not going to feel bad about it.

Phil returns to the table with our dinner, slides the Styrofoam bowl of salad in front of me. I nod thank you, pretend to be extremely engrossed in the pale mixture of iceberg lettuce and shaved carrots that came from a bag, but really all I’m thinking about is Hosea, wondering when his response will come through.

And when it does: I’ll text you later. Keep your phone on.

I pause for a moment, look at Sara-Kate to see if she’s still interested in what I’m doing. But she’s examining the pizza with Phil, trying to assess who got the larger slice of sausage and whose piece has more discs of greasy pepperoni.

As soon as I determine they’re not paying attention to me, I write back: What if you get caught?

Not three seconds later: You’re worth it.

I slip the phone back into my purse and try to ignore the gooey slices of pizza in front of them. The smell of salted meat and melted cheese is so damn good, it’s offensive. But I touch my fingers to my side, pinch and pinch until the pain makes me forget my hunger.

I spear a forkful of dry salad, let it hover over my bowl for a moment as I consider what Phil said earlier. I don’t think there’s any other explanation. I don’t know what to believe, but I do know I have to make the most of this evening.