The Truth About Unspeakable Things, Emily Myers [bookstand for reading TXT] 📗

She nods. “But what about out there?” she asks me. “What happens when the brothers find out I’ve spoken with you. They have footage of me . . .” she stops, wrapping her arms around herself.

“I know you’re afraid,” I say. “Believe me, I . . . I know exactly how you feel.”

She looks at me then. “You do?” I nod.

“The same man who tried to assault you last night, Beauregard Thomas, he’s my ex-fiancé,” I tell her. “And the man who raped me.”

My stomach is in knots as I speak. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to saying that word. It’ll never be easy. But with this realization, Marissa seems to ease.

“I can’t promise you that the footage of you won’t be released,” I tell her. “But . . . I can promise you that with your testimony, I will have compiled enough evidence to not only take down Beaux but to take down all of them, the entire brotherhood. They’ll never be able to hurt you or anyone else again.”

Marissa leans forward in her seat. Her brown eyes gloss over as she remembers back.

“But that’s if they’re arrested,” she says. “If they . . . if they are bold enough to do this and clever enough to get away with it, then . . . they must have some sort of contingency plan if someone did speak out,” she says. “They must . . .” she begins, but I stop her.

“Marissa,” I say. She looks at me, doe eyed. “You’re not wrong. But the thing is, they’re arrogant and comfortable. Men like them are used to getting what they want. They’re used to being powerful,” I tell her. “But they only keep their power because no one has stood up to challenge it,” I say. “We, the victims—no, survivors—we give them their power by staying silent. It’s no different from anything else in our world. When a boss mistreats his employees and they stay silent, the boss stays in power. When there is an election and we don’t vote, we forfeit our power. But you see, we have the power,” I tell her. “We have power inside of us. We have power against our oppressors. We have the power to create change. But we have to speak up to harness it.” I pause.

“I’ll . . . I’ll understand if you’re not ready. Truly, I will. I’ve . . . I’ve sat on my own truth for nearly a year now. Many women will sit on theirs until the day they die, and that’s okay,” I say. “But our silence protects our predators,” I tell her. “We cannot change the culture if we do not first acknowledge it.”

Marissa listens to my plea and sits quietly for a while. I worry that I’ve pushed her too hard. In her situation, I would bolt and run as far as I could, away from the truth, and anyone who wanted me to speak out. This is why I’m thankful that Kat didn’t push me, despite her knowing what Beaux had done. Still, she was right. Every day I didn’t speak up, I allowed him to keep his power, over me, and over all the women he’s harassed and assaulted since. Without Marissa, I will make my case. But with her, I am sure I—we—will win.

“Okay,” Marissa finally says. “What do you want to know?” she asks.

My lips lift into a pained smile.

“Start where you’re comfortable,” I say. With Julian’s words, I find my own sense of strength and sit quietly as Marissa tells her story.

“I first heard about Club Gent from my friend Stacy. We were both freshman at the time, and she and I had rushed the same sorority. The invitation she received made it clear that the club was secret, and she couldn’t tell anyone anything about it. But we were really close, so she told me about receiving the invitation. She was so excited because she thought it was an exclusive mixer,” Marissa tells me. “She thought it was a good thing, that she’d been noticed by the right people, perhaps was being invited to join some secret society,” she explains, fidgeting in her seat. “She had no idea what she was getting herself into.”

“So, she’d never heard of Club Gent before receiving the invitation? She’d never heard any of the other girls talk about it?” I ask her.

“No,” Marissa assures me. “But . . . I mean, every campus has some secret, exclusive activity and the less you know, the more exciting it is. The invitation was vague to say the least. Mine was as well. It was this old paper with beautiful, gold calligraphy, but . . . it had an address, a privacy notice, and . . . your name. That was it,” she says, looking away.

“Stacy never told me what really happens when you accept the invitation,” Marissa says. “She . . . she never spoke of that night and in fact, she hardly spoke to me for a good while after,” Marissa says, remembering back. “Maybe she thought it best to keep her distance, for fear that I’d ask too many questions. But . . . I didn’t press her, because I didn’t want to jeopardize her membership to whatever amazing thing she’d just been invited to join,” she explains. “I wish I would have, though.”

“When I received my invitation, I recognized it immediately from the one Stacy had shown me. Like anyone, I thought it was cool,” Marissa admits. “Because it had my name on it, I knew it wasn’t some mass invite like the ones frats put on the windshield of your car or slide underneath your dorm door. This was . . . this was personal, and it was exclusive,” she says with a nod.

“So, I went to the address it provided. There were about twenty, maybe thirty other girls between the age of eighteen and twenty waiting in a parking lot beneath some hotel in the city. I only recognized one or two of them. I . . . I don’t know how they decide who to invite,” she says. “Anyway, when I got there, I thought it was weird that the invite would send