I was 15 years old.
I had just moved from my lifelong home in the city to a small townhouse in a snobbish suburb with my mother and my soon to be step-father. My freshman year had started before the move, so I not only had to leave all of the friends I had relied on my entire life, I also had to start at a new school knowing no one mid-semester. Teenage social suicide.
My mother and her boyfriend left me home alone most weekends. He had a son up north so they would go up and stay in a camper on his parents cabin property with him, or without him depending on the visitation schedule. Regardless, they weren’t around much. When they were they were occupied with themselves.
I lived just down the street from the government subsidized apartments; known in our rich and overly privileged area as ‘The Projects’. In an attempt to make friends I would have some of the neighborhood kids over. They were a small array of 8th graders, freshman, sophomores and juniors. there was one adult that provided liquor. I had never really drank, I had never really thought about it. I had always been a rule follower, always scared to disappoint my parents.
Zima tasted like Sprite; my favorite. One of the older kids was looking out for things. He told me he had to drive someone home, he’d be right back. He would later apologize to me for leaving; although it was not his fault.
I was by the fireplace. He was across from me. He said I would owe him a kiss if he could bend his cigarette in half without breaking it. It was like magic; after a few quick strong puffs he flipped it in half with the fingers of his right hand. He looked at me expectantly… I kissed him on his cheek. I thought I had dodged pretty well.
I woke up the next morning, partially under the light blue reclining chair in my living room. There was a man’s face above me.
“Are you mad?”
“No?”
“Ok, I’m going to take a shower”
I will never forget that dialogue. I had no idea what his name was., why would I be mad at him? When I got up and went to the bathroom for the first time that morning I knew something terrible had happened. It hurt- burned while I urinated. I didn’t know what to do. He had left by the time I realized.
I didn’t know his name until his wife called. My mother answered the phone and handed it to me. The woman on the other end yelled at me, called me a slut, told me about his daughter. This is when I learned that his name was Chad. He was 23 years old and married with a child. I still didn’t remember what had happened, but I knew.
I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about. I felt myself shaking as I hung up the phone. My mother asked me what the call was about and I told it was a wrong number.
I was at a friends house maybe a week or two later; we were getting ready to go to a football game. A group of boys were calling up to us on the second floor of my friends house. They wanted us, me in particular, to come down. They had some liquor and they heard that I put out after a couple drinks. My friend called down that they heard wrong. They referenced Chad and she said he was a liar and told them that I was a virgin. She looked at me and asked,
“You don’t remember?”
“No”
“Than it’s not a lie, If you don’t remember doing it then he didn’t take your virginity.”
But it was a lie. I knew it was then, and it still weighs on me. Not that my friend lied about my virginity, but that I didn’t say anything. I should have told him I was mad. I should have told his wife what happened. I should have been able to tell my mother. I should have told that group of stupid boys that the man that bought them liquor raped me while I was unconscious.
I was 15 years old.