Intuition

Chapter 1

It was the longest night of our lives. We had freed one of our own from the depravity of that dark, dank frat house bedroom. Chelsea Daniels always had been the most innocent among us. Spawned from a small-town, rock-solid family steeped in religious ways, she came to Old State a naïf, complete with outdated outfits from a couple of seasons’ past. But she had a good, honest and open heart, and wide, open eyes that seemed to devour her new life and new surroundings. And that’s what I would end up missing the most. Those eyes. Those wide, innocent eyes through which Chelsea drank in the world. Fresh eyes. Alive. Bursting with all the wonder of a child on Christmas Day.

I glimpsed the world anew through Chelsea’s eyes. I saw the better angels of our nature through her eyes. I saw Old State the way the university and the chamber of commerce sold it in glossy brochures and on high school tours and parents’ day sales jobs. I saw us -- the Five -- through her eyes, too. The way Chelsea looked up to us.

I even saw myself, a more poised and confident version. She saw the best in everything, Chelsea did. The best in us. The best in me.

And what did we do? What did we do for her? What did we do to protect the innocence we all loved in Chelsea?

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

All four of us stood guilty of sins of omission. We who flocked to that frat party amid the scourge of those late fall campus rapes. Did we look after her, knowing how naïve and trusting Chelsea could be? Did we protect her from the frat guys just aching to ply her with alcohol, then sink their hooks in? Did we safeguard the innocence in those wide, wonderful eyes of hers? Knowing that she would see – and believe – the best in this place and the people we were taking her to see. A place that, in reality, was all about sex, perversity, alcoholic haze and power. Power above all.

Because that frat house and all its thumping music, gyrating coeds, free-flowing beer and booze, and all those private rooms and the beds just upstairs. It was but a mouse trap. A lure for naïve, wide-eyed freshmen women. And we – the four of us who had sworn to have each other’s backs – had walked our most innocent friend right to it.

Jesus, we practically served her up to them. Those faceless, drunken, oversexed, over-privileged frat boys who just had to have another new coed. A young one. A pretty one. And they had to spoil her, all before someone else could.

Unknowingly, we had presented a human sacrifice upon the altar of all that is wrong with society and college -- and the way America views and treats its young women. Namely, as objects. As scores. As numbers. As – and this is going to sound rude – holes to be filled.

Maybe it’s just the way -- the horrible sickening way -- that night still makes me feel. The way the flashes of images still manage to take me by surprise and turn my stomach, causing the bile to rise in my throat. But I can’t help but believe that what happened there wasn’t just a random meeting of the right girl and the wrong two guys. Rather, it was a symptom of a larger problem. A societal breakdown. A beating down of the spirit of what it means to be a strong, independent and sexually free young woman in the 21st century.

I am not against sex. Far from it. I am not against one-night stands. I am not against two people meeting at a party, having a few drinks and deciding, together, that they want to take it all the way. That they want to experience the rush of freedom, electricity and wonder that can come from two unfamiliar but magnetic bodies meeting as one. A lot of sparks and plenty of heat can be generated in the wee hours of those long, dark college nights. And it can be wonderful. Two people of free minds and goodwill should be able to decide for themselves.

This, to me, is sexual freedom.

Unfortunately, the way sexual freedom has been defined on too many college campuses – and certainly inside that frat house on that fateful night – is that we women are free for the taking, instead. Our own independence, choices and opinions in the matter, be damned.

The evil coconspirator in all this is alcohol. Along with a system that still punishes the victim and views abhorrent sexual behavior as boys being boys.

I don’t mean to preach, and I’ll stop now. But I just wanted you to know some of the feelings that this night stirred inside of me. So many feelings. So much regret. So much sorrow.

But above all, guilt.

Because we – myself, Sonya, Amanda and even loyal Lauren – had let Chelsea Daniels down.

And the moment I saw her eyes, her vacant, zoned-out, zombie eyes, as Chelsea pawed for her clothes inside the vacant frat room, with the soiled mattress on the floor and a crumbled Barack Obama mask in the corner, I knew. I knew Chelsea Daniels would never be the same.

The light in her eyes went out that night.

No. It was extinguished. Snuffed out. Smothered. Taken away. Taken from us. But most of all, robbed from her. From deep inside Chelsea’s soul.

And it wasn’t coming back. Ever.

But what were we going to do about it? What were we prepared to do?

In the early moments, after Dante Bartoli burst into the room and we found Chelsea, bewildered and debauched, blindly trying to gather up her clothes and cover her shame, I know what I felt. I know the rage that pumped through my system.

It was the unmistakable, unquenchable thirst for revenge.

I wanted to take them down. Every last smug frat-boy upperclassman who had a role in hurting my Chelsea.

But most especially – most egregiously – those two long-dicked motherfuckers hiding their self-satisfied faces under those Barack Obama masks in that unspeakable picture they later sent to Chelsea’s phone.

With it came their warning message, all in caps: BETTER KEEP QUIET.

That was beginning of the threat that accompanied the image of a naked Chelsea, with one of the men taking her from behind and the other in her mouth. This was the final line:

WOULDN’T WANT THIS SHOWING UP ON THE INTERNET, WOULD YOU?

It was a threat, all right. And a taunt. A dare.

But above all, it was her attackers saying to us, We got you. We got you by the short ones. Because a picture like this, coupled with social media’s reach and all those sick, Revenge Porn website avenues of display, would ruin Chelsea. Whatever parts of her weren’t ruined by the act, itself.

The Internet became an accomplice after the fact. An anonymous place where gross guys could post the naked photos of former girlfriends, or even one-night stands. All without the women knowing their faces and naked bodies were now in the eternal ether of cyberspace, for all the world and all time to see.

It was an electronic version of putting another notch in a bedpost.

Bottom line, Chelsea would never get over it. If she knew of this image and the threat it carried, it would kill her. It would literally kill her.

Lauren sensed this right from the start. And she brought Chelsea’s phone to us late that same night.

Luckily, Chelsea never saw the photo or the message. We had managed to protect her from this, at least.

Earlier, Sonya Kessler had produced a mild sedative from her secret stash of prescription pills, and Lauren had put Chelsea to bed.

The rest of us convened in mine and Sonya’s room to plot strategy. But when that photo pinged into Chelsea’s cellphone, which we had recovered from the frat room, along with Chelsea’s small wallet and soiled clothes, Lauren intercepted it as Chelsea slept. And as soon as she saw it, Lauren left the vigil she was holding for her roommate to come to us.

It was here, in our room as the hours crept toward dawn, that we began plotting our revenge.

Chapter 2

I can’t help thinking that we should go to the authorities, I said, as the grim, tired faces of Amanda Livingston and Sonya Kessler stared off at nothing. Nothing but the horrors we had all witnessed upon barging into that frat room and rescuing Chelsea from the pit of depravity we had all helped plunge her into.

Amanda shook her head numbly.

The sad reality is, they’d make it all about her, the British journalism student said in a dry, resigned voice. In my reporting on campus rape statistics, it’s always the same pathetic thing. The drinking, the dodgy guy who can’t keep it in his pants, so he takes advantage. But the whole notion of consent often goes out the window, because nobody can remember who said what when. So unless there are sure signs of a struggle, unless there are witnesses, or unless the blood alcohol content is so large as to prove the woman was passed out at the time, the victim gets the blame. Sure, the cops will investigate. They’ll take her statement. They’ll tweeze her body for pubic hair and bodily fluids. They’ll probe her vagina and anus for signs of tears and bruising, pretty much violating her all over again. They might even arrest someone and bring him in for questioning. But when all is said and done, absent clearly compelling facts of the use of force, it’s a matter of he said, she said. And then we are back to the alcohol, which undermines everything the woman testifies to. So it’s a goddamn Catch-22. The booze sets up the guy to take advantage of the woman. And then the alcohol undermines any chance the woman has of proving that she was taken advantage of. Bottom line, it sucks. It sucks big hairy balls.

Amanda drew in air and exhaled in a long, tea-kettle-like sigh.

Sonya’s numbed featured screwed into a grimace.

Amanda, please, she scolded. The imagery. I don’t think any of us want to picture big, hairy balls at this precise moment.

But as Sonya said this, she began to laugh. Not because she didn’t care about Chelsea and her no-win legal situation. But rather because the hour was so late, our emotions had been on a relentless roller coaster and our brains were fried thinking about the no-exit maze that was the justice system when it came to college women sexually assaulted at a frat party.

As Sonya’s laugh turned into an uncontrollable giggle, Amanda appeared astonished as she inspected her friend.

Are you really laughing? she asked.

Sonya couldn’t answer just then. Her giggling was getting out of control. She raised a hand as if to plead her case. But she was laughing so hard, tears were streaming down her cheeks.

I looked at the both of them and began giggling myself.

Amanda shot her outraged face to me. Then her mouth widened into a grin. Soon, she was laughing, too.

We all were cackling like a bunch of hens when Lauren Marks barged through the door, her face drawn and ashen, her hand clutching an iPhone.

She stood frozen at the door, gob-smacked by the sight of her three friends roiling with laughter mere hours after one of our own had been sexually abused in ways most people couldn’t imagine.

What the fuck? Lauren said, her jaw hanging open, her hands squeezing into fists as she clutched the phone.

One look at Lauren, and I regained my sobriety. I shook off my laughter and wiped at my face.

Lauren, I managed. It’s not what you think.

Amanda quieted, and then so did Sonya, but her face remained red and wet from her laughter and tears.

Glad you assholes are having such a good time over here, while I watch our friend toss and turn in bed, even though she’s sedated, Lauren chided us. For God’s sake.

We feel like shit, too, Amanda offered.

Got a funny way of showing it, shot back the no-bullshit Philly girl who routinely dressed in skater gear.

Really, Amanda added with sincerity. How is she?

How do you think? Lauren said, her voice cold and judgmental. God only knows.

Sonya bowed her head in shame.

Lauren, your family is in law enforcement, I began. Don’t you think we should call somebody about this? I mean, I could at least talk to my father and see what he thinks.

Lauren’s judgmental gaze fixed on me, now. She shook her head at my naiveté, blowing out exasperated breath.

Chief of police’s daughter, Lauren began, still shaking her head. Still think you can run to Daddy, and he’ll fix everything?

I stared back blankly. I didn’t dare say anything more. I had made my case for reporting the incident, and it had been rejected twice now.

It don’t work that way in the real world, Honey, Lauren added. We ain’t in Wonderland anymore. We’re at Old State, where the statistics on sexual assault -- reported and unreported -- would make your head spin and your Daddy’s hair turn white.

So that’s it? I said. We keep drugging Chelsea, turning her into some kind of emotional zombie until she just forgets about it?

I’m not talking about forgetting anything, Lauren said, her face a mask of malice as she walked deeper into the room.

If I knew right now who hurt Chelsea, she continued. Then, her voice broke and her features crumbled from anger to heartbreak.

Well, she managed, pawing at her stricken face. Let’s just say, there’d be some guys from Philly on the road here right now. And when they met up with the assholes who did this, those limp-dicks wouldn’t have kneecaps no more, among other parts of their anatomy.

I stared at my friend, whose family was rooted in law enforcement, like my own. But Lauren’s image of justice was far different than my own. But one thing was for sure. I didn’t doubt a word of what Lauren was saying. This was no idle threat. She meant it, every word.

"So what