I was fourteen. I practiced walking differently, talking differently. I liked it when I was in town and men’s eyes lingered on my long legs; I realized they, and my breasts, were precious assets. My parents did the usual, sent me back to my room to change when I dressed inappropriately. So I went underground. I’d leave the house with a bare face and decent clothes, and change and apply makeup in the bathroom at school. I wasn’t the only one, of course. Some of the girls were able to wear their makeup openly, but many of us, especially from the more religious families, had to hide it, and strip it off at the end of the day before going home. I can’t blame my mother. I’d do the same with a daughter that age.
But that thing. It was the end of eighth grade. May. I was walking home from school. I was alone, having left my friends at their houses along the way, mine being the farthest one out. A bunch of high school boys were huddled by the side of the road, taking turns pulling on a joint. “Hey,” they called when they saw me. My makeup had been scrubbed off, and I had my decent clothes on, but I was wearing them differently than I would if my mother were watching. I looked young and, doubtless, eager to please. I remember their words exactly, because they thrilled me. “Hey, sexy thang, come here for some part-ay-ing.” So I walked over. I recognized a couple of them, mostly the older brothers of kids in my class, although there were a couple boys my age. They offered me the joint, and I took it, tried to act casual as I inhaled with a deep breath, but predictably just choked and coughed. The boys laughed, and one said, “That first toke is a killer,” in a friendly way, so I felt okay.
One boy I’d had a crush on for years. Richard. Something was wrong with his heart and he couldn’t play football. This was usually the kiss of death socially for boys at my high school, but he managed to hang with the football players from sheer force of will. When we were six I’d drawn him a valentine heart with a tiny hole in it, the way my mother had described. The teacher took one look and crumpled it up. Richard never saw it. Still, I’m sure he could tell I liked him. Certainly, the other boys noticed, because they subtly pushed him forward to be by my side as they suggested a walk into the woods.
I’d thought nothing of it, the woods being my backyard. Afterward of course, everyone took my easy acquiescence as proof that I understood exactly what I was getting into. I didn’t, not even when it started. We’d stopped in a clearing, and I thought they were going to light up another joint, but instead Richard got pushed forward again, and I blushed as I saw he was going to try to kiss me.
You can probably guess the rest. I don’t want to go into it. It hurt, certainly it hurt, but mostly it was the shame. The awkward scrabblings at my breasts. A rock under my shoulder blades. I could glimpse the blue of the sky through the leaves of the trees above. A couple of the boys had trouble, and that hurt most of all as they tried to poke their way to success. Then, suddenly it was over and I was alone. I got dressed and went home. My mother had been frantic, had been on the phone calling the whole town. Any thoughts I had of not saying anything vanished when she saw me, my dirty clothes, my face. She had the story out of me in about five minutes, and we were on our way to the police station in ten. The whole time she was lecturing me that it was partially my fault, the way I dressed, the way I walked. “You can’t tempt those boys,” she told me. “At that age, they’re hogs in heat.” Hawgs in heet. I will say she fought for me, though. When my daddy arrived he was angry that my mother had gotten the police involved. Said it was a regrettable incident, but we all know what boys are. My mother for once ignored him; they nearly came to blows in the police station. Then the questioning began. Yes, I knew the boys. Yes, I went with them willingly into the woods. What was I thinking? I told them that I guess I wasn’t. The police officer on duty reluctantly took my statement and said they’d look into it.
So began the first worst period of my life, the second being of course when I was married with two kids stuck in a small garage apartment. But that was later. I was told that the boys said I agreed to it, that they were good boys, they wouldn’t lie. A couple of them were from prominent families in town with money and lawyers and in the end, after the hours of questioning and fuss, somehow the tables got turned and we were on the spot, we were going to be in trouble if we didn’t drop the charges. So we did. One policeman had placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You don’t want to end up in the Odditorium yourself, young lady.”
I’d see those boys around town, sometimes with older girls, and I’d think, I’ve had knowledge of you. Some phrase I’d gotten from church. One of the reasons I married my first husband was that he was one of the few boys who was kind to me in high school after word got around. MJ pulled a train. That’s when I started to wear the long skirts, the shapeless blouses, to hide my figure, even pants were too revealing.