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I imagine what your face looks like now still with freckles, your smile without your retainer. Did I owe it to you, or our class, or the next girl to say something? Did we perpetuate a cycle without realizing it? I wish we could sit across from one another as adults, outside of time and law, and come to a consensus of what would have been for the greater good. I know nothing about this story is exceptional. The reality is probably something much more mundane. Part of me, deep in my gut, thinks you may be dead.
I feel like I’ve heard from or about every person in our grade but you. When I searched for you on Facebook I couldn’t find you. Both of our lives would have been ruined. If I had told my parents what you did I can imagine what would have happened to us. Part of me is glad I forgot and glad that I never told. I never told anyone but my sister and even then I never said your name. I didn’t understand why I started to shake when a boy leaned in to kiss me.
I was confused by my fear of being touched and physical intimacy. I want you to know that I genuinely forgot about it for many years.
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All the bus driver had to do was say something. I didn’t know all those weeks of touching and teasing were leading up to that. I want to say I blame the bus driver much more than I blame you. But, I believe one of our classmates would have stopped you if they understood what they were witnessing. Maybe you still would have stayed on top of me even while I screamed for you to stop and kicked. Maybe you still would have held me down in the back of the bus. I want to say that I strongly believe that if someone had spoken with our class about the lines we don’t cross when we interact with other people, that if the message and expectation had been clearly communicated to us, none of this had to happened. Even with all those resources, even in a school district with all that wealth, we were all deprived of basic tools and dialogues that could have spared us guilt, pain, and humiliation. I think we could have handled someone facilitating an assembly about consent and harassment. We went to a school for gifted students, we were constantly praised for our maturity and intelligence. I think by the 8th grade we were all due for multiple discussions about sex, abuse, battery, and rape. I think we were surrounded by competent and attentive adults who should have intervened long before it happened. I want to say that I don’t think you’re evil, although I think you did something banally evil. I know your mother died not long after what you did. This may be a fabricated memory, but I recall that our friend who introduced us confided in me that she suspected your father beat you. I remembered you from before you transferred to my school and how we agreed that we would be friends once you joined my class. Although you were average in the scheme of things, to me you were cute and sweet. There were cuter boys, richer boys, and cooler boys. You were bigger than me, but you weren’t lumbering. I’ve thought about it a lot and the conclusion I’ve come to is that you were a thirteen year old boy and you genuinely didn’t understand the magnitude of what you were doing.