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I want to know more before it leaves your hands.” She sat back with the laptop on her knees. “Why are you coming to me? I’m not the only one in this business anymore.”“Simon says,” she answered.“So we’re playing that game again,” I sighed. Simon Says. The very phrase transported me back to college days with two friends I thought would be with me for the rest of my life. I was older by a couple of years because of my military service, but Simon and Brenda were my constant companions from Freshman Orientation on. Most of the time we agreed on what we were doing, where we were going, and when we were doing things. We were tight. But whenever there was a question, we always yielded to Simon. He was clever about things, knew where things were happening, how to get in, and which direction to take to avoid the campus cops if we were out past curfew. (Yeah, we still had curfews back then.) We started calling it “Simon Says.” If there was a question, we waited for what Simon said, and that’s. ********A pile of snotty, mascara-stained tissues squatted wetly at Laurie’s side.“I’m so sorry,” said Laurie, snuffling. “I’m such a mess. But I was so STUPID, I walked down THAT ALLEY, and I was DRUNK, and what I let him DO TO ME and I’m SO DUMB—” “Laurie. Look at me.” Georgetta’s voice shone like mahogany. “This was not your fault. You had every right to walk down that alley. You have every right not to be afraid, no matter where you are. You have every right to go where you want, when you want, without fear. You need to put the blame where it belongs: On the man who did this to you. And on the culture that sanctions it.”Laurie snuffed, nodded. “I know all that. I know. But it’s so hard—and I can’t sleep, and I see his face, smell his breath, feel his hands, his weight, taste his. . . .” Georgetta waited as Laurie wept through five more tissues.“Laurie,” said Georgetta. “You haven’t told me something important.”“Um,” said Laurie. “What?”“The race of the man. His skin color. What.
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