“Sent u email about Jesmyn. Please read.” S
The text from the Ex was short and sweet, like Susan used to be. The message nearly sobered me up. I was suddenly warmer, the friction of memories rushing back from five years ago. The flip phone in my hand felt twice as hot, so I dropped it in the sand as if scalded. I stared at the message until the screen blanked black. Like my life after Jesmyn.
I don’t know how Susan found me. I go by Neil Daniels now. Anyone who remembers the Old Me was in Olathe, Kansas. My neighbors changed my name before I did, a convenient transposing of letters from Nate Draper to Date Raper.
Even in Jesmyn’s version of the story, no intercourse occurred. But according to Kansas law, sexual misconduct with a minor, any act at all, is charged as statutory rape. And that awful nickname followed me through hearings and firings, trial dates and death threats. Even after my innocence was established, in the eyes of Olathe, I was never not guilty. By the end, it was easier to change my name. To change the circumstances, I would have had to see it coming.
Jesmyn always got by. Smart girl, a solid B average, without even trying. That was the trouble, nothing was ever hard for her, except maybe her upbringing. She was always delivered to me for counseling after one mishap or another. She never asked for my advice, but I gave it anyway, standard language from the Counselor’s Handbook: concentrate on school; up your
