At
first glance, Brooke Flanagan, Lauren Le, and Nikki
Towers have little in common:
a churchgoing virgin, a party girl, and a resident advisor. But they all
have their own dreams, dreams that can be shattered in a single night.
Into
these girls’ lives walks Colin Jordan. Colin is the son of a private equity
titan, captain of his club basketball team, and a brilliant pre-law student. He
is also a sexual predator.
LAUREN LE BEFORE:
At
eleven thirty Lauren Le stood with
her new friends at the Homestead, a
lively bar in the Triangle. Everyone talked at once, shouting to be heard above
the music. The Homestead had space
for a couple hundred people, with a large square bar in the middle, dozens of
stand-up tables, and two dance floors. The constant beat and the bass notes
coursed through Lauren’s veins.
She
took a slug of the vodka soda.
Pace
yourself, Lauren.
It
had taken her a month to get comfortable on campus. She had grown up in Irving,
Texas, outside of Dallas,
and had never traveled this far to the east before starting school here. Some
of her high school friends had gone to college, but none as far away as Lauren.
They fell short when it came to grades and test scores and ambition.
Lauren
was the result of a short-lived and reckless affair between a Vietnamese
immigrant, Kim Le, who worked in a nail salon, and a tall Texan who lit out for
the oil rigs as soon as Kim missed her first period. Kim had never heard from
him again, and she seldom mentioned him to Lauren. As Lauren grew older she
became curious and would sometimes ask about her father.
“I
was stupid,” Kim had said. “I tried for a big dream with a big white man. But
he was no good.”
When
Lauren pressed for more information, Kim would grow adamant.
“You
forget about him. You need to study.”
If
Kim wasn’t working at the salon, a short distance from their apartment, she was
doing piecework for a local tailor. Kim never paid Lauren an allowance, but she
let her work a part-time job so long as she kept her grades near perfect.
With
a tired mother and an absent father, Lauren was forced to learn how to have a
good time on her own, and at that she had excelled. As a senior with a full
figure, a fun nature—her hobbies were cosplay, online gaming, and organizing
flash mobs—and a curious mind about partying and sex, Lauren had always
attracted guys.
She
had drunk one cocktail at the Italian restaurant and started with a shot of
tequila at the Homestead. When they
had first arrived, the girls danced as a group for nearly an hour, not allowing
the dearth of boys to deter them from getting the party started.
Lauren
took a break, her head buzzing slightly from the alcohol and the dancing. Cool
air from the duct above her whisked away the perspiration.
God,
college is fun.
The
bar began to fill, and boys drifted by their group in ones and twos. A
sophomore from New Jersey bought
her another drink. He was her height, with red hair, and talked fast in a
northern accent. He was almost cute, except for a big pimple and his lack of
coordination. They tried dancing but couldn’t make it work. Afterward, he told
her his dream of becoming a veterinarian. Snore.
Lauren
spied one of the resident advisors from Roxbury Hall, Nikki
Towers, watching her from the other
side of the bar. The girls had approached Nikki when they first entered the Homestead,
nervous because they had used fake IDs to get past the bouncer. They needn’t
have worried. Nikki’s nickname was Cool RA. She had a reputation for doing her
own thing in her own way and never traveling in a crowd. Cool RA had wished
them a good time but advised them not to get wasted. (“I’m your RA, not your
babysitter.”) Nevertheless, when Lauren caught Nikki’s eye, she could tell Cool
RA was not impressed with the New Jersey
kid.
“So…,”
he said, “do you want to come over to the frat house and listen to music? I’ve
got some killer weed.”
“Oh…well…like…”
His
eyes were glazed and his shoulders swayed, like a five-year-old on a bicycle.
Lauren wasn’t a fan of just-met sex. If he had been gorgeous, like Liam
Hemsworth, then maybe. Wait, maybe? Not maybe. Definitely! But she would not
have sex with New Jersey, at
least not tonight. “You know, I’m gonna hang with my friends a while longer.
Thanks, though.”
“Not
a problem. Catch you later.”
He
leaned toward her as if expecting something. She hesitated, unsure, and then
offered to shake hands. He only got about ten steps before he stopped to chat
up another girl.
“What
did he want?” said Caitlyn, her roommate. Caitlyn’s face turned sour as
Lauren told her of the invite to smoke pot. “Eewww! That guy?”
They
laughed. Lauren was light as a feather. She could party all night.
LAUREN LE AFTER:
At
two thirty in the morning an Uber
dropped Lauren outside Roxbury Hall. Lighting a cigarette, she gazed up at the
three-story brick building and remembered move-in day, how excited she’d been;
her mother and aunt and uncle had come to help. What had she wanted then? Freedom?
Relief from her mother’s watchful eyes? Yes, that was part of it, but she’d
hoped for a lot more.
Lauren
had smoked pot with her latest score, a hipster from California,
and now her head felt heavy and thick. After the joint he had wanted to have
sex again. She had no urge for an encore but couldn’t think of a polite way to
turn him down. What did that make in total? Three? Four? Five counting the
blackout sex with Colin Jordan. Five boys (men?) in four weeks. What the hell?
So weird. The hookups were like gorging on pizza, but the gnawing emptiness
she’d felt after Colin hadn’t abated at all.
What
did she have on the calendar for the next day? A couple lectures: Psychology
and English Lit. She might make it to class, or she might not. They were easy
courses anyway. Crushing the butt beneath her heel, she tossed it in a trashcan
and walked through the door.
Inside
Lauren’s dorm room, Caitlyn sat at her desk reading a textbook with her earbuds
in.
“Hey,”
said Lauren. “What are you doing up so late?”
Caitlyn
turned in her chair. “Studying for the psych test.” She sniffed the air.
What?
Caitlyn never studied this late. Lauren walked to Caitlyn’s side and saw, sure
enough, that the fat psych book was open a third of the way through.
“What
for? The test is next week.”
“It’s
tomorrow.”
“No,
it’s next week.”
“It’s
tomorrow. I texted you to study together, but you never answered. Where’ve you
been?”
Lauren
ignored Caitlyn and walked to her desk to check her laptop. The test had
to be next week; she’d skipped a few classes and hadn’t read the book. “What?”
“I
asked where you’ve been.”
“The
Homestead. I went for a drink.”
Fuck!
Caitlyn was right. The test was that morning—less than seven hours away. Lauren
shook her head. The buzz from the pot had turned into a headache. How did she
mess this up? Caitlyn was saying something else.
“What?”
“You
smell like cigarettes and pot. Where did you smoke pot?”
“Uh…I
stopped at this guy’s place to party.”
“On
a Tuesday? Shit, Lauren. What the fuck?”
“Hey,
you’re not my mom. Chill the fuck out.”
After
a shower and some caffeine, Lauren reviewed her notes and opened the textbook.
Caitlyn had gone to sleep, and Lauren’s desk lamp made shadows on the floor.
The quiet of the room calmed her, and for the first twenty minutes she made
progress, covered the better part of a chapter, but then her eyelids grew
heavy, and the words blurred on the page. A short nap would clear her head and
allow her to absorb the material with her usual speed. She set a twenty-minute
timer on her phone, lay down, and closed her eyes. The psychology concepts
quickly drifted away.
*
* *
Lauren
sat in the classroom, breathing fast; her eyes flitted back and forth over the
questions. Half of the class had already finished and left. She flipped back
several pages. Damn. There had to be another question she could answer,
but she couldn’t find it, and after another minute the professor called time.
She
had woken at eight thirty to Caitlyn
roughly shaking her shoulder.
“Wake
up! It’s time to go. I woke you twice already.”
With
no time to even brush her teeth, Lauren had pulled on boots and a clean top and
walked with Caitlyn to class. She had never felt so unprepared.
And
now she’d failed the test. Fucking flat-ass failed it.
Outside
in the bright sunlight, Caitlyn stopped to face her. Her eyes peered into
Lauren’s, her ever-present smile nowhere to be seen.
“How’d
you do?” said Caitlyn.
“Awful.
I really fucked up.”
“I’m
sorry. You know…I tried to text you.”
Lauren’s
legs were numb. Adrenaline had fired her up during the exam, but now all the
energy had burned off.
Caitlyn
headed off to another class, and Lauren trudged to the student union. She’d
spent the last of her cash on cigarettes. Once inside, she made it to the ATM
and took out ten dollars.
She
stared at the red and white logo on the touchscreen.
Bank
of America.
Her
mother’s apartment was two blocks from a branch. Kim would deposit cash tips at
the drive-thru while Lauren sat in the passenger seat. Some days at the salon
were hard. The owner would berate the workers for not learning English. But the
drive-thru had always lifted Kim’s spirits. On the way out she’d pause to look
at the B of A sign and say the same thing every time: “Your future is in this
bank.”
Lauren
took two steps and her knees softened. She turned her back against the wall and
sank until her butt touched the floor.
Don’t
cry. Don’t.
But
her throat tightened and warm tears forced their way through closed eyelids.
She sat with elbows on knees, her hands over her face. Silent sobs shook her
shoulders. Students walked past in the hallway, busy, with classes to attend,
futures to build. Two girls giggled, happy, oblivious.
Fuck.
What was happening? She was freefalling into black air.
Someone
said something. A man’s running shoes appeared through spread fingers.
“Are
you all right?” he said.
Lauren
pressed her palms against her eyes to rub away the tears. She wouldn’t compound
her failure by making people pity her, too. Pushing off the tiled floor she
stood, pulled her backpack over her shoulder, and faced him.
“You
looked kind of sad,” he said.
Who
was this guy? What was his game? Not bad looking, with strong shoulders and a
relaxed vibe, faded jeans and a simple black T-shirt.
“Do
you want to fuck me?” she said.
“What?”
His mouth opened. “No!” He stepped back and thrust his hands in front as if to
ward her off. “What’s the matter with you?”
Several
students stopped, sensing an incident of interest.
Lauren
marched away from the onlookers. She ran upstairs to the second floor and
exited onto the grounds on top of the hill. She kept walking, past the
admissions building and the Old Chapel and onto Philosopher’s Row. She took one
of the paths into the side gardens and dropped on a bench.
She
rocked slowly, hugging her arms. God, how pathetic was that? What would she do
next? She wanted to skip class and walk to the Homestead
for an early afternoon cocktail.
As
if clinging to the edge of a dark abyss, Lauren tried to hold on, her stomach
roiling, her arms shaking. She had propositioned the boy, because she had wanted
to fuck him. She wanted to fuck a guy…any guy…every guy.
But
why? She’d never done that before. Never on the first night…that was her rule,
one she’d broken how many times now? Five.
She
grasped the edge of the stone bench, squeezing, ignoring the grating surface
against her fingers. A bird sang from a nearby tree. The bird flew from one
tree to the next, a flash of red, a cardinal. It settled for a few moments on
the branch of a maple tree, whose leaves had begun to turn, sang, and flew off.
The
cardinal reminded her of Todd, the gay guy she’d met three weeks earlier, with
his bright plumage and sweet song. What had Todd told her as they waited for
the Uber driver? Something about the dean of student affairs. Maybe she should
check it out.
My
goal in writing the novel was NOT to focus on the act itself, but instead, to
write of the victim’s journey, to tell a story about the strength, courage, and
determination of survivors, to describe the difficulties they face in their
pursuit of justice, and finally, to offer hope for a future where students can
pursue their dreams without fear of being attacked.
As
Lady Gaga’s “Til It Happens to You” implies, non-victims can never truly know
how it feels to be assaulted, but we can try to empathize, and we can try to
help. Awareness is key to reducing the incidence of sexual assault on campus.
Please do your part by taking the It's On Us pledge and contributing to
organizations that are fighting on the front lines.
Thank
you to readers who give me encouragement. It means so much to me. Word of mouth
is an incredible thing, so thank you also for telling your friends about Survivors'
Dawn.
