All Fall Down(52)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

“Those boys were provoked,” Father Ryan said.

“So she was asking for it?” I could feel my anger . . . but I could feel it from a distance, from behind the protective, warm bubble of the drugs, the invisible armor that let me be brave.

“It might be a pleasant fantasy to imagine that women can dress any way they want to and nothing bad will happen,” said Father Ryan. “But we live in the real world. Teenage boys, teenage boys who’ve been drinking . . .”

“. . . know that stealing is wrong. They know that arson is wrong. Yet these boys managed to get drunk without helping themselves to anyone’s wallets or setting the house on fire. It’s ridiculous to give them a free pass for sexual misconduct, to think that everything they know about what’s right and fair and legal goes out the window because they’ve had a bunch of beer and they see a girl in a short skirt.”

“Let’s hear from Dr. Bendinger,” said LaDonna. Her widened eyes suggested that she might have gotten a more lively conversation than she’d envisioned.

Dr. Bendinger said the case illustrated how social media raised the stakes of all of our actions; how no matter what you did, it would dwell online, forever.

“And is that fair?” asked LaDonna.

Father Ryan shook his head. “This was a youthful indiscretion,” he said.

“This was a rape,” I replied.

He shook his head again, looking annoyed, like I was a mosquito who wouldn’t quit buzzing. “A young girl goes to a party in a short skirt and a tank top. She gets drunk. She’s announcing her intentions to have sex. She’s got a vibrator in her purse . . .”

“None of which meant it was okay for four guys to carry her down to the basement and rape her.”

“So you don’t have a problem with a fifteen-year-old having a vibrator?” asked LaDonna.

“I do not,” I said. “I think it’s better for a young woman to use a vibrator in a loving, committed, monogamous relationship, or to use it all by herself, in no relationship at all, than for her to participate in hookup culture, where she’s there to service a guy, where he gets off and she gets nothing.” Was I allowed to say “get off” on TV? Never mind. The pills were lifting me, buoying me, making me feel invincible, effortlessly witty, even cute. “Maybe vibrators are actually keeping girls out of trouble,” I said. “Maybe every girl should get one along with her driver’s license. A chicken in every pot and a vibrator in every purse!” I said. Father Ryan looked horrified. I, on the other hand, felt great.

“With that, I’m afraid we’re out of time,” said LaDonna Cole, who looked more than slightly relieved. “Father Ryan, Dr. Bendinger, Ms. Weiss, thank you so much for joining us.” When the camera was off, we all shook hands; then, still glowing with triumph, I sailed out of the building and into my car. My phone was buzzing, flashing Sarah’s picture on the screen.

“Hi!”

“A chicken in every pot and a vibrator in every purse?” She sounded somewhere between bemused and grossed out. “Dude. You have got to write that and get it up ASAP.”

“ASAP,” I repeated, and giggled. Oh, but I felt good! And a few more pills—two, maybe even three, why not?—would only make me feel better. I could surf this delicious, happy wave all the way home. I could write my next blog post, make love with my husband and fall asleep in the warmth of his arms, and then I’d get up, go to the grocery store, and buy the ingredients for his favorite coq au vin for dinner. While it was simmering, I’d call Skinny Marie and give her carte blanche and a blank check. My house would finally have furniture. My life would finally be okay.

“Six hundred words. Quick as you can.” Then Sarah paused. This was uncharacteristic. Sarah was usually full speed ahead, without as much as an “um” to disrupt the staccato rhythms of her thoughts. “This is kind of awkward, but I need to ask you something.”

“Ask away!” I said. Just like that, the delicious wave of joy collapsed underneath me, leaving me splayed on an icy shore. Suddenly I was terrified. She knows, I thought. Maybe I’d accidentally typed my work address at Penny Lane, and they’d delivered a package of Percocet or Oxy to the office?

Sarah cleared her throat. Then, before I could beg her to put me out of my agony, she said, “There’s some money missing from the petty cash account.”

“Oh!” Ladiesroom maintained the account Sarah had mentioned, a few thousand dollars that all writers and editors above a certain level could access if they wanted to, for example, pay for membership to a sex club without using their own credit card or having to wait for the expense reports to wend their way through the accounting department (which had been, we guessed, outsourced to some country where women would work for a dollar an hour).