from the fight, I couldn’t keep myself from going over afterward to see how they were. I kept a small first-aid kit in my backpack and handed out any number of bandages during the eighth and ninth grades. I was not self-conscious about this quirk in my character. It was a strange thing: I was mortified by having to leave in the middle of class to handle menstruation, but no amount of teasing, or being called “Nurse Smoky,”
ever bothered me. Not even a little. I know that this characteristic is what led me to the FBI. The decision to go after the source of pain, the criminals who enjoyed causing it. I also know that what I saw in the years that followed changed it in some way. I became more careful with my caring. I had to. My first-aid kit became me and my team, and the bandages became a pair of handcuffs and a jail cell. This being the case, when I realized that someone was crying in the bathroom with me, I placed my pad as a hurried afterthought, all embarrassment forgotten, pulled up my jeans, and rushed out of the stall. I paused in front of the door the sobs were coming from. 44
C O D Y M C F A D Y E N
“Uh—hello? Are you okay in there?”
The sobs stopped, though the sniffles were still audible.
“Go away. Leave me alone.”
I stood there for a second, trying to decide what to do.
“Are you hurt?”
“No! Just leave me alone.”
I realized that there wasn’t any pressing physical injury to attend to, and I was about to take the voice’s advice when something stopped me. Fate. I leaned forward, tentative. “Um, listen . . . any way I can help?”
The voice was forlorn when it responded. “No one can help.” There was a silence, followed by another one of those awful, poignant sobs. No one can cry like a fifteen-year-old young woman. No one. It is done with all of the heart, nothing held back, the end of existence.
“Come on. It can’t be that bad.”
I heard a scuffling sound, and then the door to the stall slammed open. Standing in front of me was a puffy-faced, very pretty blond girl. I recognized her right away and wished I’d listened when she first asked me to leave. Annie King. She was a cheerleader. One of those girls. You know, the snobby, perfect ones who use their beauty and flawless bodies to rule the kingdom of high school. I couldn’t help it, that was what I thought at the time. I had her pigeonholed and judged, the same way I hated being judged myself. And she was mad.
“What do you know about it?” It was a voice filled with fury, and it was directed at me, full on. I stared at her, caught flat-footed and flabbergasted, too astonished to be angry back. Then her face crumpled, and the rage vanished faster than it had appeared. Tears ran down her face. “He showed everyone my panties. Why would he do something like that, after everything he said to me?”
“Huh? Who—what about your panties?”
Sometimes, even in high school, it’s easiest to talk to a stranger. She talked to me then, while it was just the two of us in that bathroom. The quarterback of the football team, a David Rayborn, had been dating her for almost six months. He was handsome, smart, and seemed to really care about her. He’d been pushing her for a few months to go “all the way,” and she’d been resisting his advances. But he’d been so sincere in his romance of her that a few days ago she’d finally given in. He’d been gentle, and caring, and when it was over he’d held her in his arms and S H A D O W M A N
45
asked her if he could keep her panties to remember the moment by. He said it would be a little secret between them, something they knew but no one else did. A little naughty, but also kind of nice. Somehow romantic. Looking back at it now, as an adult, it seems silly to think of it in that way. But when you are fifteen . . .
“So today I’m walking off the field after practice, and they’re all there. The guys from the team. David is with them, and they’re all pointing at
ever bothered me. Not even a little. I know that this characteristic is what led me to the FBI. The decision to go after the source of pain, the criminals who enjoyed causing it. I also know that what I saw in the years that followed changed it in some way. I became more careful with my caring. I had to. My first-aid kit became me and my team, and the bandages became a pair of handcuffs and a jail cell. This being the case, when I realized that someone was crying in the bathroom with me, I placed my pad as a hurried afterthought, all embarrassment forgotten, pulled up my jeans, and rushed out of the stall. I paused in front of the door the sobs were coming from. 44
C O D Y M C F A D Y E N
“Uh—hello? Are you okay in there?”
The sobs stopped, though the sniffles were still audible.
“Go away. Leave me alone.”
I stood there for a second, trying to decide what to do.
“Are you hurt?”
“No! Just leave me alone.”
I realized that there wasn’t any pressing physical injury to attend to, and I was about to take the voice’s advice when something stopped me. Fate. I leaned forward, tentative. “Um, listen . . . any way I can help?”
The voice was forlorn when it responded. “No one can help.” There was a silence, followed by another one of those awful, poignant sobs. No one can cry like a fifteen-year-old young woman. No one. It is done with all of the heart, nothing held back, the end of existence.
“Come on. It can’t be that bad.”
I heard a scuffling sound, and then the door to the stall slammed open. Standing in front of me was a puffy-faced, very pretty blond girl. I recognized her right away and wished I’d listened when she first asked me to leave. Annie King. She was a cheerleader. One of those girls. You know, the snobby, perfect ones who use their beauty and flawless bodies to rule the kingdom of high school. I couldn’t help it, that was what I thought at the time. I had her pigeonholed and judged, the same way I hated being judged myself. And she was mad.
“What do you know about it?” It was a voice filled with fury, and it was directed at me, full on. I stared at her, caught flat-footed and flabbergasted, too astonished to be angry back. Then her face crumpled, and the rage vanished faster than it had appeared. Tears ran down her face. “He showed everyone my panties. Why would he do something like that, after everything he said to me?”
“Huh? Who—what about your panties?”
Sometimes, even in high school, it’s easiest to talk to a stranger. She talked to me then, while it was just the two of us in that bathroom. The quarterback of the football team, a David Rayborn, had been dating her for almost six months. He was handsome, smart, and seemed to really care about her. He’d been pushing her for a few months to go “all the way,” and she’d been resisting his advances. But he’d been so sincere in his romance of her that a few days ago she’d finally given in. He’d been gentle, and caring, and when it was over he’d held her in his arms and S H A D O W M A N
45
asked her if he could keep her panties to remember the moment by. He said it would be a little secret between them, something they knew but no one else did. A little naughty, but also kind of nice. Somehow romantic. Looking back at it now, as an adult, it seems silly to think of it in that way. But when you are fifteen . . .
“So today I’m walking off the field after practice, and they’re all there. The guys from the team. David is with them, and they’re all pointing at
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