Days pass. Speculation about who killed Lark and why subsides, and the girls in World Civ are back to texting and playing Tetris. One morning out of the blue, our first-period teacher tells us we’re having a special assembly. The entire school piles into the gym to see Principal Akers at a podium, surrounded by a small army of strangers carrying clipboards and briefcases. He tells us the deans have set up special tables with art supplies in the library where we can make cards and drawings and write poems.
“Honor roll student, dedicated athlete, Lark Austin was one of the students who make us proud to be a part of Thomas Jefferson High.”
A freshman girl starts shaking and crying. The old government teacher who always wears a bow tie and has been around so long he’s taught some of our parents wipes his eyes. A row down from me, a couple leans together. The boy puts his arm around the girl, and I wonder why I can’t cry or feel something like sadness. After all, we grew up together. She used to be my best friend.
Principal Akers goes on.
“The people you see with me are grief counselors, professionally trained therapists that our wonderful PTA has brought here to help us process our feelings about the terrible tragedy that befell Lark.”
He says they’ll be visiting health classes, and that he and the deans are here for us at this difficult time.
“Did you see the young one?” asks Boston, edging through the crowd to be near Alyssa. “I like his fauxhawk.”
“Yeah,” answers Beth. “I hope he comes to our class.” But he doesn’t. Instead, Ms. Sims introduces Kate Battle, a licensed social worker who specializes in grief work with young people.
“I’m a retired policewoman, too,” adds Kate, “and I’m here to help you to grieve and to give you some tips about how to keep safe. We’re going to be talking and sharing, so the first thing I want you to do is make yourselves comfortable.”
Girls stretch out on the floor or prop up their heads on their desks. Boston takes her place in the front next to Beth and Alyssa. I sit down cross-legged in the corner of the room. I’m angry, but I don’t know why. I pull out my sketchbook and start drawing cypress trees and clouds.
Kate Battle uses her hands when she talks. “The most important thing you can learn from me today,” she says, “is how to stay safe. So before we talk about the terrible thing that happened to your classmate, let’s go over a list of tips I’ve prepared for you.”
She asks for a volunteer to distribute the handouts, and Boston jumps up. Kate Battle goes on. “Read silently, please, as I go over the list. . . .”
I place the handout on my sketchbook and look it over.
Avoid being alone.
Men who are predators will first try to gain your trust.
If they think you’re easily pushed around, they’ll move in.
Never be afraid to be rude. Do not worry about hurting a stranger’s feelings if you are uncomfortable.
If a man who is bothering you doesn’t go away, say “Get away from me NOW!” in a loud voice.
Try not to smile or laugh out of nervousness. Try not to act “cute.”
If you must walk or wait alone, never wear headphones. Many victims are abducted or attacked because they don’t hear the man sneaking up on them.
Carry your keys so they stick out between your knuckles and can be used as a weapon.
Kate Battle demonstrates how to rake someone’s face with her own keys. But I only have one key since I don’t drive yet. Not much of a weapon. Besides, how can you really tell if a guy is all right or a sex offender? And aren’t girls supposed to be nice? Aren’t we supposed to let the guy make the first move?
Ms. Sims asks if anyone would like to ask our guest speaker a question or share some feelings. One girl says how she didn’t know Lark personally, but she thinks that what happened to her is really, really sad. Another girl says something like it happened to her cousin’s best friend in Pennsylvania. Boston tells the story of a girl at her sister’s old high school who was killed by a drunk driver on her way home from the prom. But since it doesn’t have anything to do with what happened to Lark, Alyssa and Beth burst out laughing.
“You are so random!” laughs Alyssa.
It takes a while before Ms. Sims can restore order. She tells them they either have to stop laughing or leave.
“We’re okay, we’re okay . . . ,” Alyssa protests. “Please, don’t kick us out. This is a really good class. We don’t want to leave.”
“Well, then act like it,” orders Ms. Sims.
The girls calm down and pretend to be serious. I go back to my drawing, half listening to stories about girls who’ve been abducted or assaulted. Surprisingly, no one mentions Daphne, the girl who left school. Last winter she passed out drunk at a party. Her friends walked her into one of the bedrooms, and a little while later a couple of guys went in and raped her. Her parents pressed charges and sued the host’s parents for letting underage kids drink at their house. But most people blamed Daphne for what happened because she wore too much makeup and was always getting wasted. Apparently none of her friends stood up for her. She got depressed and her parents dropped the suit. So I guess Daphne broke the rules by being alone in the bedroom, but maybe her friends broke them by leaving her alone when she couldn’t take care of herself. Or maybe she acted cute when those guys came in, which is something Kate Battle says you should never, ever do if you have even the tiniest thought that a guy could be a predator. Maybe Daphne laughed or did something that made the guys think she wanted to have sex with them. In the end, she lost all her friends and dropped out to get homeschooled. The guys weren’t even suspended. They said it was consensual.
In my corner, I’m drawing a swirling cypress tree. Branches curl and lift as I sift through the details. Some things fall between categories, like what happened to me with the assistant swim coach when I was twelve. Boston raises her hand.
“Was Lark raped?” she asks.
“Detectives aren’t saying,” says Kate Battle.
“Why not?” says Alyssa.
“Sometimes police keep evidence secret until it’s been verified by a lab so it can be used in questioning the suspect.”
“Why?” asks Jess.
“Usually when there’s a murder, the only living witness is the murderer. If we tell the press we’ve found scraps of fabric or lint on the victim or at the scene of the crime, the killer might read it. Then, if we pick him up for questioning, he will have had the chance to get rid of something that might link him to the crime.”
“And then, of course, there’s sperm,” announces Alyssa. “You can tell a guy’s blood type from sperm.”
Girls groan in disgust, me included. Boston shows Beth something she’s written on her hand and they both giggle.
“And there’s something else,” says the grief counselor, “that all of you in this room should know. It’s about how you dress and how you move and how you walk. You’re young women now, and how you conduct yourself gives off signals, whether you like it or not.”
Alyssa jerks up her head and rolls her eyes at Kate. “Yeah, right,” she says. “As if Lark wore a tank top to gymnastics because she wanted to be killed.”
For once I agree with Alyssa. I put down my pen and listen to Kate Battle’s response.
“No, of course not,” counters Kate, “but at the same time, it’s important to be aware that you are not just powerless victims. There are things you can do to prevent things like this.”
I don’t know about that. I’m starting to believe in luck as the ruling power.
Outside, the world goes on in its usual way. From where I’m sitting, I can look out the window onto the street. A bus goes by, then a truck carrying huge spools of wire. People run to a store or get coffee or take a package to the post office. Kate Battle urges us to keep talking and processing. Then she asks Boston to help her pass out a flyer for the girls-only self-defense class she teaches on Saturdays.
Suddenly, I realize why I’ve been angry all period. None of this is about Lark. People have stopped thinking about her. They’re taking the lessons they need and moving on. And the grief counselor, who came to help us process our feelings, is trying to drum up a little business for herself.
“No, thank you,” I tell Boston when she offers me the flyer.
Boston smiles at me and snaps her gum.