This is not a manuscript written by a gifted writer. It's not written by someone with talent or someone who understands the craft of writing.
It’s written by someoneconsumedwith a story.
That is the beginning and the end of the strength this manuscript boasts—and yet it’s enough. I’m pulled through the choppy sentences, the run-on sentences, and everything in between. This story isreal, raw and livid and vibrant. It jumps off the page, clawing and fighting and drawing ragged breath.
A high school girl, named Cora in the story and clearly a sketch of Nora. Three male friends. And a night in which she is drugged, assaulted, and left alone.
Three weeks later, the pink line appears.
I tear through the story, my eyes growing wider and wider with every line I read. I think I am probably the second person in the world to walk this path, reading these words, but I don’t take them for granted. They settle heavy on my soul, and I’m an outsider; I can only imagine what they did to Juniper. I saw the aftermath.
If this story is to be believed, the story Nora Bean was writing, Juniper is a product not of love, or even mutual, consensual lust. She is a product of sexual assault.
And she has probably been fundamentally changed by that knowledge.
Another strange twisting of my heart wrenches my chest, and I want nothing more than to push the laptop away and get rid of the story it’s telling. But somehow I also know that it’s myduty now to bear witness to what really happened; to read these words, recognize their truth, and acknowledge them. To remember this story, the same way Juniper remembers her dead.
We are all record keepers.
We all bear witness to our days and nights and lives and loves here in this world.
So I will be a keeper of this truth: that thirty years ago, a young woman suffered immensely from one of the most terrible things that can happen, and as far as I know, she never told anybody.
The story is set up a bit like a mystery novel, though watered down; it couldn’t be clearer that this project was more like a diary than a book that was ever meant to see the light of day. It follows what I assume was Nora’s real-life journey as she searched for which of the boys did this to her; the main character hunts ceaselessly for that secret, running into roadblock after roadblock.
There’s a stirring of motion from next to me, and I startle back to the present—where I’m sitting next to Juniper instead of following her mother as she tries to hunt down her assailant with little to no support.
“You read it?” Juniper’s voice is thin, watery, muddled with sleep. She doesn’t sound upset.
“I’m not finished yet,” I say to her. I lean over, trying to get a closer look. “How do you feel? Physically,” I clarify.
“Tired,” she says. “And I have a headache.”
Shelookstired. Maybe it’s just because she was crying, but her eyes are red, and even her pink hair seems duller and less saturated than usual. She’s curled on her side, facing me, my gray bedspread tucked up around her head and shoulders.
“You should sleep more,” I say. It’s on the tip of my tongue to suggest returning to her own bed, but I can’t quitebring myself to kick her out. I can handle Juniper Bean in my bed for one night. I’ll sleep on the couch and then wash my sheets and pillowcase so that none of her intoxicating citrus scent is left behind.
“I can’t sleep right now,” she says, shaking her head a little. Then she nods at the laptop still perched on my lap. “Finish reading, and then we’ll discuss.”
Like it’s book club.
I just nod, though, and return my attention to the computer. I find my spot easily, and for the next fifteen minutes, I read Nora Bean’s unfinished manuscript. Every now and then there’s a sniffle from Juniper, but I don’t let myself lose focus. When I finally reach the last page, the cursor blinks at me expectantly, eerily, waiting for someone to tell the rest of the story. It’s unfinished; Cora, the narrator, is still hunting for who assaulted her.
Did Nora ever find out?
“Done?” Juniper says.
I nod. I think ten years have been added to my age tonight.
“Thoughts?” she says.
“First thought: Are you sure you don’t want to talk about this another time?”
“I’m not sure,” she admits, and even though she’s backlit by my bedside lamp, I can still see the sheen of tears that enters her eyes. “But I kind of get the feeling that now is the best time. While it’s fresh. I’m not going to be able to put all this behind me until we figure out what’s going on, and to do that we need to discuss. I don’t trust my brain at the moment.”
“All right,” I say, not bothering to keep the grudging note out of my voice. I’m not convinced this is a good idea, but she’s in charge. “Go on, then.”
“Right.” She takes a deep breath; I hear it, see the rise of hershoulders in her silhouette before she puffs it back out. “Okay. So what did you get from that?”
