thoughts
To the boy who first used those three words:
I was 13. I was 13 and you had just turned 16, but you were only one year ahead of me in school. Maybe that should have been a red flag. I was 13 when you slipped a note into my locker, asking if I would be your girlfriend. You’d decorated it with a drawing of Tweety from Looney Tunes because my best friend told you I liked Tweety, and he was one of the cartoons you could draw. I was 13 when you shyly took my hand during a football game when none of your friends were looking. I thought I wanted you to kiss me, but I was equally terrified that you’d try. All you did that night was hold my hand, always finding an excuse to let go when someone looked our way. I was 13 when you gave me a gorgeous necklace and earring set. It wasn’t my birthday or Christmas. You just wanted to give me something as beautiful as you claimed I was. I wore the necklace every day. I pierced my ears just so I could wear the earrings as well, but I had a reaction to the metal and had to let the holes grow shut. So instead, the earrings held a place of honor atop my dresser. I had a sneaking suspicion at the time that you’d stolen them, but I was never brave enough to ask. I was 13 when you finally kissed me. Well, I don’t know that I’d call it a kiss so much as a clashing of teeth followed by your tongue so far down my throat that I had to actively suppress my gag reflexes. When I finally pushed you back you announced to everyone around us that my lips were chapped and I didn’t seem to know what I was doing. I was 13 when you insisted that I sit in the very back of the suburban, between you and a friend, on a school trip. You knew I wouldn’t say anything when you slid your hand inside my jeans. You knew your friend would be impressed by your daring. You knew that I would stare straight ahead and ignore your fingers snapping the waistband of my underwear as long as you didn’t go further than that. I was 13 when you gave me a rose made of glass because I’d mentioned how much I loved Beauty and the Beast. This time your sister mentioned that the rose had been free, but followed up by suggesting that I not show it to anyone else, confirming that you still only gifted stolen goods. I was 13 when you kicked your sisters off the couch so you could sit next to me while we all watched a movie. This time I tried to shift away from you when your hand crept inside my shirt, but I was trapped against the arm of the couch. I’ve never watched Tuck Everlasting again because I don’t see the actors on the screen. I see your face, hovering too close to mine as your fingers struggle with the clasp on my bra. I was 13 when a girl in your class told me that she’d hooked up with you, and your response was to wink at her. I earned my first detention trying to win you back from her with a note in her locker, threatening to make her life a living hell if she didn’t stay away from you. I was 13 when you implied to everyone in your class and mine that we had sex in an empty classroom during a school dance. When I confronted you about it, you pinned me against your locker and tried to convince me that we might as well prove the rumors true. I was 13 when I followed you into the backseat of your friend’s car. I let you kiss me, because I hadn’t protested before, so what right did I have to stop you now? I didn’t stop you, nor did I help, when you pulled my shirt over my head and dropped it on the floor. And you know, you might have gotten what you wanted if you’d just kept your mouth shut. I was 13 when I learned that “I love you” loses its melody when accompanied by the staccato of a zipper. Fortunately for me, I ran a mile a day when I was a young teenager, so I managed to fight my way out from under you and kick you away from me. I fell out of the car still physically, though no longer emotionally, intact, grabbed my shirt, and ran without looking back. I haven’t spoken to you since, and have no intention to do so ever again. Though I was able to get away from you, I’ve never completely left you behind. I question the gifts boys give me now. I don’t tell people I love them, and I don’t let others say it to me. I flinch away when anyone tries to touch me. My right forearm will forever bear nine slightly faded scars; constant reminders of the number of months you had complete control over me. I never read the notes you slipped into my locker after that night. I pretended I didn’t hear when your sister informed me, and everyone else at the lunch table, that you’d dumped me because I was a frigid bitch who teased you but then refused to follow through. Don’t worry; you’re not the last guy to file this complaint. It took me five years to tell anyone what almost happened between us in that car. Even then, I treated the story like a joke. I couldn’t let the one person I confided in know how terrified I’d been, or how hard the memory was to face, so it became yet another anecdote in my arsenal of amusing situations I’ve found myself in. Most of the time, I can push you to the back of my mind. I get through most of my days without a single thought of you. But you always seem to pop up when you’re least welcome. When someone opens their arms to hug me, I feel my muscles stiffen, remembering how you helped yourself to whatever part of my body you felt entitled to at the moment. When someone tries to kiss me, my lips freeze briefly, awaiting the humiliation of being shamed for my inexperience. When the best guy I’ve ever dated dared to tell me he loved me, I broke up with him because all I could hear was your breath in my ear as you tried to remove my jeans. You ruined so much for me, but I’m determined to fight back. I’m working on getting past the barricades you constructed for me. It’s slow going, but I refuse to let you live inside my head forever. I will get past all of this one day. But I hope that my face that night haunts you forever. Because I was 13. You unbelievable bastard.
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Jacinta M. CarterProfessional Book Nerd Archives
March 2019
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