Honorable Disgrace: the StorySixteen -year-old Angie Adams is smart, beautiful, and head-over-heels in love. Everything is going her way as she catches the eye of her longtime crush, football hero Cory Jacobs, proves her strength to those skeptics on the powerlifting team, and even lands her first job without even having to apply.
But Angie’s new job may be more than she bargained for. She soon finds herself drawn toward her older, very good-looking employer, Brad. Cory is everything Angie could ever want, so why does her stomach do flips every time Brad looks at her that way?
Then, when Angie’s older sister, Lorraine, needs a late-night ride to a friend’s house, Angie senses she could be making a big mistake. She knows all about Lorraine’s problems with drugs and alcohol, but her concern for her sister overrules her cautious instincts. That night, Angie is brutally attacked and raped. All the while, Lorraine is just in the next room, oblivious to (or ignoring?) Angie’s cries for help.
In the aftermath of such cruel betrayal, Angie can’t bring herself to trust anyone: not her family, not her friends, and definitely not herself. She struggles to “be strong,” fighting against growing feelings of worthlessness and despair. And for Angie, the horrors are not yet over.
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Lorraine gasped, her eyes growing wide, mouth agape in horror. She grabbed my arm, the ugly mottled bruises stark against my pale skin, a myriad of color on a white canvas. “What happened?”
“Noth—” I tried to jerk away, but she held fast.
“Don’t you say nothing.” Her teeth were clenched, her eyes smoldered, the intensity of her gaze too strong. Afraid of the emotion, I looked away. “Those bruises aren't nothing. What happened?”
“It’s nothing!” I yanked my arm away, angry tears seeping out of the corners of my eyes. I fled to the corner of the bed.
I didn't have to tell her anything, I didn't owe her anything. She hadn't cared enough about me last night to see if I was alright, abandoning me for Dave, just like the other night with Hobbs. I wanted to scream at her, ask her why she hadn't come, why she hadn't saved me, why she had put me in that situation in the first place.
I could see the question in her eyes, “Angie—”
“Just get out of here.” Quietly, I cut her off.
She stepped toward me and put a hand on my bed. I clamped my mouth closed in an angry line and shook my head. She ignored my warning, her knee pressing down the bed.
“Angie, who did that to you?” Her voice was full of worry.
I clenched my hands so tightly I felt what was left of my jagged nails dig into my palms. Why hadn't she come back to check on me? Why?
Flying at her, I screamed, “I said get out. Leave me alone.” I shoved her, knocking her through the door, slamming it in her stunned face. I locked it and leaned against it. My knees gave out and I slid to the floor. I stared at my arm, transfixed by the dot to dot of discoloration, remembering the cruel feel of his fingers.
The handle rattled above my head and then Lorraine knocked. “Angie, let me in.” The knob rattled again. And then the door shook against my back when she slammed into it. “Fine.”
Her footsteps retreated. Shortly after, I heard the distant open and close of the front door.
I pulled a blanket off the foot of my bed, draping it around my shoulders, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes in a vain effort to staunch the flow of tears. I could have told her. I should have told her.