Teddy Wayne - Loner

I would listen, deadpan, as the foreman read the jury’s decision in my televised trial for attempted rape. A verdict of guilty for the Harvard Rapist, David Alan Federman. Famous David.

None of that happened.

The burden of proof was on you, and aside from your police report and the eyewitness account of a jilted ex-girlfriend, the only damning evidence was a paper you’d written (not approved by your professor, it turned out, who disavowed the topic and research protocol as academically unethical) that showed you’d manipulated me. I had planned to employ the belt, my parents’ colleague would argue, for sadomasochistic purposes during consensual sex, and you had reacted hysterically once we began. My clothes were in the closet to separate them from your belongings ready to be moved. We had been seen at final clubs together on multiple occasions looking friendly with each other if not intimate; the only time I had shown up anywhere unexpected was in New York City, at a public venue, a mere coincidence. And if Sara testified, he would question why, if I’d supposedly been aggressive in bed, she had sent me a text saying she was thinking of me.

The Harvard connection would make it a high-profile trial, and your name — plus those of your prominent parents — would inevitably leak out. My lawyer also suggested that, should we go to court, allegations about your cocaine use and an affair with a married graduate student would be forthcoming.

The district attorney, afraid of losing the case, convinced your publicity-wary parents that it would be best for everyone if I were allowed to plead guilty to a lesser offense, assault and battery, sentencing to be held five years later, with the understanding that as long as I didn’t harass you in any way, physically or verbally, then my case would be dismissed, all pertaining material would be sealed, I wouldn’t have to register as a sex offender, and—

To put it in layman’s terms, I’d get off scot-free.

I told my parents I wanted my day in court, to clear my name completely and (I didn’t mention this part) to tarnish yours. Absolutely not, they said; it wasn’t worth the possibility of not winning.

From what I heard, you were initially outraged by the terms of the plea bargain, but upon learning that the Ad Board was kicking me out of Harvard, you grudgingly agreed. My parents instructed me not to appeal the decision, assuring me I could transfer to another good school the next year. I went along with everything.

The Crimson reported on the incident (using only my name) and my expulsion but, lacking juicy details and a court case, soon turned its attention to a hazing scandal at a final club.

With my academic rap sheet, however, no respectable institution would accept me. My parents insisted I go somewhere, so I enrolled at a community college within driving distance of home. I got meaningless straight As without even trying, took my cafeteria lunches outside. An English composition adjunct said I showed a lot of academic promise and should consider applying to a four-year school.

Word spread to my Hobart High classmates. “I guess you decided not to take it slow after all!” Daniel Hallman e-mailed me. That was the last I heard from anyone there.

Anna hardly acknowledged me. When Miriam came home, she chose her words carefully, as if I were an obtuse foreigner.

I don’t leave the house much these days. Usually I’m in my bedroom, on the Internet. You can burn a great deal of hours like that.

I turned twenty-four last week. My mother asked if I wanted anything special for my birthday. To get my van Gogh prints framed, I said. She also gave me a pair of slippers with DAF monogrammed across the toes.

It’s risky to do anything with this, even if there aren’t judicial consequences. You wouldn’t read it anyhow; you were never interested in knowing me. But I didn’t write it for you (the way you manipulated me to write your essays, the way you manipulated me the whole time). I wrote it about you, a big prepositional difference. For legal purposes, let’s classify it as fiction — or as fictional as your term paper. Call it Veronica Morgan Wells: A Study .

It’s funny. Lately I’ve found myself thinking of Sara more often than I do of you. The other day I saw she had a new profile photo, one of her and a guy hiking through some woods, their backs to the camera.

I couldn’t see her other pictures, but I imagined what she looked like now, and began conjuring her future selves as the years whipped by and she accumulated wrinkles and pounds and reading glasses. Also kids and a husband — me, with thinning hair and a thickening waist, the two of us racking mugs and bowls in the dishwasher, scooting our brood off to school, a hectic morning routine; but before we departed for our idealistic jobs that actually existed, she kissed me good-bye, tapping me on the head twice.

Knock, knock. Who’s in there?

We shared a smile, the kind couples reserve for private jokes that no longer inspire laughter but still bear the memory of it, because, after all these years together, she had gotten me to let whatever was in there out.

In Harvard Yard that winter night — more than five years ago — I settled into the police car, my posture slumped from the handcuffs, red and blue lights flashing around me like Fourth of July fireworks.

“What’s his name?” one of the gawking students asked the girl down my hall. “Who is he?”

I sat up, my spine erect against the seat, making myself more visible, listening for my name.

Divad Namredef. Somewhat of a loner.

“I don’t know,” she said, and the door closed.

I am grateful to the following:

my two editors — Millicent Bennett, to whom I am profoundly indebted for her meticulous attention and unflagging stamina, and Ira Silverberg, as adroit a shepherd and champion as I could ask for; their respective assistants, Julianna Haubner and Kaitlin Olson; my superb publicist, Erin Reback; my copy editor, David Chesanow; and Jon Karp, Marysue Rucci, and everyone else at Simon & Schuster;

my agent, Jim Rutman, a paragon of professionalism and decency;

my selfless and perspicacious readers — Chelsea Bieker, Clara Boyd, Sarah Bruni, Amber Dermont, Maura Kelly, Aryn Kyle, Diana Spechler, and John Warner;

my research resources — Andrew Epstein in clinical psychology, Josh Gradinger in the law, and Julian Lucas for Harvard-related queries (all errors are mine);

for conversations on the subjects of risk and reward, Lev Moscow and Nathaniel Popper;

the MacDowell Colony and the Sewanee Writers’ Conference;

the Greathead/Pennoyer family for welcoming me so warmly, and the Waynes for not evicting me;

and, finally, Kate Greathead, who not only tirelessly and sacrificially took time to make this novel the best possible version of itself, but has even more generously done the same for me.

By Teddy Wayne

This reading group guide for Loner includes an introduction, discussion questions, and ideas for enhancing your book club. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.