“No, I didn’t!” I shouted as I continued to struggle with someone twice my age, who stood at least six inches more than my five foot eight inches and outweighed me by a good forty pounds. “You asked for a ride home, and that’s what I thought you wanted. I don’t want this with you.”
I struggled to get away, but his grip tightened. I didn’t give a damn if he yanked out every hair on my head; I did not want his hands on me. Lashing out, I hit him in the face. He snarled and grabbed me with his other hand. He had me now, both hands with a death grip on my head. He tried to force me down toward his crotch. The sweaty, musty smell made my stomach roil and my head swim. He let go with one hand and fumbled with his belt, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Please don’t do this,” I begged. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Then it struck me. What would he do to me after? He had to know I’d tell my mother or someone. Did he think they wouldn’t believe me? Would he hurt me—or worse—after he got what he wanted? I started to cry.
“Shh. It’s okay,” Mr. Jackson murmured. “I’ll take care of you.”
He peeled back his underwear and his cock popped out. The smell became overpowering and I… threw up. All over his lap with the vegetable pizza they’d served for lunch. That, added to the odor of his crotch, had me heaving everywhere. He pushed me away, then hit me, hard, in the face. It dazed me, and I thought he’d overpower me. Instead he got out, dragged me from the car, and pushed me to the dirt. He kicked me in the ribs once or twice, then got in my little lemon and drove away.
I shivered, and not from the cold. His hands on me, his mouth touching mine. They’d chilled me to my depths. I crawled to the nearest tree and sat against it, the rough bark digging into my arms, and cried.
FOUR HOURSlater, the sheriff at the time, Roy Campbell, and my mom found me. She hurried from the squad car and threw her arms around me, and I sank into the embrace, sobbing how sorry I was.
“Shh. You didn’t do anything wrong,” she assured me.
But I did. I let him into my car—my life—even though I didn’t feel right about it. Everything that happened was because of me.
The sheriff stood behind her, not meeting my gaze. His body language told me he found the whole thing uncomfortable. I wasn’t really surprised. He’d never been the most tolerant of people who weren’t like him. When Mom turned her glare on him and demanded that he get off his goddamn ass and do something, he snapped into action. He started by asking me if I was okay—had he hurt me? I barked a laugh, because my face hadn’t gotten swollen all by itself. When he knelt down and reached toward me, I jerked away.
“No, don’t touch me!” I screamed.
He pulled his hand back as if he’d been zapped. Mom bundled me up and got me into the cruiser, then sat beside me, pulling me into her embrace. She stroked my hair, murmuring to me that it would be okay, but even back then I knew the truth. Nothing would ever be the same again.
They took me to the hospital, where I was given some painkillers and told I needed plenty of rest. They released me the next morning when Mom came to get me. She hurried me to the car and got in beside me. She didn’t say anything on the drive home, and I was grateful for that. My mind was already jumbled with replaying the incident from every angle to see what I should have done differently. Unfortunately nothing seemed to change, no matter how many times I went through it. I’d done something to make him think I was willing. I just didn’t know what.
That night, Mom told me she’d seen Mr. Jackson flying through town in the car she’d given me, brakes squealing as he turned the corner. She knew something had to be wrong. She went to the sheriff and convinced him to check into it. When they caught Mr. Jackson at his home, he first told them I’d loaned him my car because his wasn’t working. Mom said that was a lie. She knew I’d sooner give up Clay than I would my car. The sheriff arrested Mr. Jackson and took him to the tiny office he worked out of. Crime in our town wasn’t unknown, but mostly it consisted of bored kids being somewhere they shouldn’t. When Mr. Jackson told them where he’d left me, he tried to say it had been consensual, that I’d come on to him. My mom freaked out over that, because she knew better. She and Clay knew I was gay, but she also knew I would never do anything with a grown-up, and certainly not in our small town. Mr. Jackson finally confessed, was charged with attempted rape, and went to trial. Fortunately, since he admitted his guilt, our lawyer said I wouldn’t have to testify.
It never changed anything for me, though. My life had started a downhill slide I thought I’d never get out of.
“We got your car back,” Mom told me later.
My beloved car. The most precious thing in my life. Now it was tainted. I didn’t think I could bear to see it again. “Sell it,” I said.
“But you love that car.”
“I don’t want it anymore.”
“You’ll feel better one day. You’ll see.” Her voice was filled with a hope I didn’t feel.
I stayed home from school for the next two weeks, talking to no one. Mom tried to coax me out of my room with my favorite dinner, but I said I wasn’t hungry. Eventually she put a plate outside the door and left me in peace, which I appreciated. My whole world had begun to crumble around me. Everywhere I looked, I saw reminders of the kid I’d been. The stupid person who believed that helping people could never be a bad thing. I began to straighten up my room to give me something to do. I found that as I made order from the chaos around me, my mind calmed and I could breathe again. Every trophy, every kitschy little thing I’d bought over the years, all my pictures… they were the bits and pieces that made up my life. If I hoped to find my center, they had to be perfect. I sorted them, first by color, then by year, and finally by size. Next came the books on my bookshelf. Genre first, then author name. I made lists of where everything was so I could always find it with ease.
By the time I stepped out of my bedroom, I’d calmed. But then I noticed the mess of the house and felt the urge to fix it. It was part of what I considered to be mine, and I didn’t like to see it messy. Mom had gone to work, Clay to school, so there was no one else in the house. I set to cleaning. I dusted, then washed down the walls and floors before I tackled the rest of the house. By the time everyone got home, I’d made a sizable dent, but so much more remained to be done.
“Clay? Go on up to your room, okay?” Mom asked.
“Sure, but can he come and do mine next?” Clay asked, his voice breaking when he laughed.
“Get upstairs,” Mom snapped.
Clay trudged up the stairs, mumbling under his breath the whole way.
“Honey, come and sit down.”
“I can’t,” I protested. I had hours of work ahead of me to get the place… right.
“Matt,” she coaxed.
