“Can I please, please go?” I begged my mom over the phone. At 14, with school about to let out for the summer and enjoying a half-day, I was craving the chance to hang out with my friend, the one everyone adored — you know, the girl with sleek black hair and a nose that could grace magazine covers. My mother, however, was not on board.
That day, my friend’s brother — the popular one who made hearts flutter — would be around, along with a notorious troublemaker and my friend’s boyfriend. But I kept those details to myself.
Why was it that my friend got to do all the “cool” things? She had a boyfriend, could stay out late, and even smoked in her room! Why did Mom have to be so strict? I was desperate for a taste of freedom.
“Fine,” Mom relented after a long sigh, clearly busy at work. I could tell I had worn her down. I hung up and bolted to my friend’s house.
When I arrived, the boys were already there, eager to share some drinks. I had never tasted alcohol before, but how bad could a little sip from the bottle be? It hit me like a freight train, and before my 98-pound frame could catch up, my friend had disappeared into another room with her boyfriend. I was left dazed, grappling with the reality that she was already having sex — something I hadn’t even considered yet. My parents wouldn’t let me talk to boys after 10 PM, let alone have one over when their house was empty!
Her parents were deep in a messy divorce, which added a toxic layer to their home. My friend had developed a manipulative streak, thriving in the chaos of her parents’ rivalry. I witnessed her sitting on her dad’s lap, gleaming in her glossy hair, throwing the most venomous looks at her mother. The entire scene left me uneasy.
But at that age, we think we’re invincible, right? We want to be “cool.” What’s not cool, however, is when you start to black out.
I was alone with two boys, drifting in and out of awareness. I vaguely remember being in her brother’s room, trying to steady myself as the room spun. The troublemaker was wrapped in a blanket, laughing and moving closer to me. Then, suddenly, I found myself in the closet with her brother, who asked, “Do you suck dick?” while pushing my head down. It was an odd question, one I didn’t have experience with. My sister’s friend had once explained it as “just like French kissing, but, you know, down there.”
The next thing I knew, I awoke in an unfamiliar shower. The troublemaker popped his head in, chuckled, and then left me to my thoughts. I was slumped on the floor, water cascading over me, and that’s when I realized — I had a lot of pubic hair, and suddenly, that seemed to matter a lot.
When I regained consciousness again, I was in a strange bed, alone. Later, I learned that her brother had dropped me off at a friend’s house because his mother was coming home soon. This girl was known for her drug use, and here I was, a good kid who followed the rules. I could hear voices downstairs, and as I stumbled down the stairs, my head pounding, I touched my hair.
Oh no, my hair. I didn’t have sleek black locks. Mine was thick and unruly, the kind that frizzed up at the slightest hint of humidity. I shuffled past the cool kids, praying they wouldn’t recognize me, but of course, they did.
As I pieced together the day’s events, I felt a strange relief that nothing “terrible” had happened, or so I thought. Sure, I gagged and vomited, which led to the shower situation, but I was still naïve enough to believe it was all fine. I didn’t think of it as a form of assault; after all, we were all underage, right?
But as an adult, hearing about stories like Brock Turner made me sick. I started to imagine the what-ifs. What if I had passed out instead of getting sick? What if I had drunk more? What if it had gone further? These are the thoughts that keep me up at night as I think of my own daughter.
I don’t blame my mother for the day I experienced. Now, as a parent, I understand how quickly one can tire of a child’s pleas. I did know it was a bad idea, but I thought I had control.
I will teach my daughter to trust her instincts, to follow that inner voice telling her to steer clear of trouble. I want her to know she doesn’t need anyone’s approval and to recognize true friends — those who would never put her in a dangerous situation to prove her worth.
As for my son, he will learn to respect others and himself, understanding that taking advantage of someone is never acceptable. He’ll know he must intervene if he sees someone in distress.
I lost touch with my friend and her brother over the years, but I only hope that if he remembers that day, he reflects on how his actions made me react. The troublemaker has been spotted loitering around our old school, intoxicated — a reminder of the past I’d rather forget.
In the end, I realize how fortunate I was that day that it didn’t escalate further. And sometimes, almost does count.
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In summary, this narrative serves as a stark reminder of the choices we make in youth and the importance of parental guidance, trust, and self-respect.