When I was thirteen, I vividly remember going to a birthday party at a new friend’s house. Her mom was one of those ‘cool’ moms, the kind you’d see in movies, which meant we had the freedom to roam the neighborhood on our own, liberated from the incessant barrage of an adult’s probing questions. “Where are you going? Who will be there? When will you be back?” Nicole’s mom was a vision of edgy 90s style. She wore leather jeans laced up the sides, and her mastery of the smoky eye was unparalleled. It was the perfect blend of shadow and liner that screamed glamour. She was kind of my idol. When I grew up, I wanted to be just like her.
Nicole and I were walking to a park, deep in an unfamiliar area of town. We walked with an intoxicating sense of rebellion, untethered from parental oversight, and the world felt like ours to discover. Nicole, ever the risk-taker, had swiped a wine cooler from her mom’s refrigerator right before we left. Huddling close, we passed it back and forth like a forbidden treasure as we giggled, slurping greedily at the pink, sugary juice with a hint of booze. It’s astonishing how fragile your limits are with that first drink, and how little is needed to ignite a heady buzz. Just two long sips in, and I was soaring with euphoria. Nothing could touch me. I was invincible. The sky deepened into darkness, and yet, I was unafraid. I felt warm and buoyant, enjoying the freedom and unrestrained joy that only the untouched innocence of youth can provide when life has yet to reveal its darker shadows.
Slightly buzzed, we strolled along the winding path that hugged the riverbank, letting out tandem squeals of delight when we discovered the pirate ship.
Its once-majestic hull was now blanketed in a tapestry of wild, creeping weeds and beached on the sandy shore.
Indulging in the last fleeting moments of my childhood, I raced up the creaking gangplank. This was the mythical park I had heard whispers of at school for years, a place crafted by someone who truly grasped the inner workings of a child’s mind. This park was a true adventure, unlike the sanitized playgrounds of today, with their plastic surfaces and extensive guardrails, built on beds of rubber mulch to minimize the potential for injuries and lawsuits. It’s sad. Kids these days are coddled, and parents these days are litigious.
In the inky darkness, I could smell the acrid tang of cigarette smoke and hear low, male voices echoing over the water.
“I hope Austin is here,” Nicole whispered, her voice barely audible above the soft din, tinged with a mix of anticipation and nervous excitement.
Austin was her latest crush, all brooding dark hair and the maximum amount of muscles a seventh grader could possess without his dad secretly injecting him with steroids.
I read an article once about a father who did, and I never forgot it. What kind of man voluntarily injects his child with steroids, condemning him to having a tiny unit and roid rage for the rest of his life? I’ll never understand it. People are screwed up and will do anything for their fifteen minutes of fame.
As if he’d heard her, Austin materialized in front of us, stepping out from some hidden alcove, a shadowy figure emerging from mist. He extended his cigarette to Nicole, who accepted it eagerly, her fingers trembling as she attempted to mimic the stance of a seasoned smoker. She inhaled deeply, her lips wrapped around the end with determination, trying her hardest to mask her inexperience. But as the burning smoke seared the back of her throat, her bravado crumbled. She erupted into a fit of coughing and spluttering that lasted an agonizing five minutes. The boys burst into laughter at her expense, slapping each other's backs with glee, as if they had just heard the punchline of the funniest joke ever told.
When she finally regained control of herself, he snatched her hand in his, and they vanished deeper into the ship, squeezing into the shadowy nooks and crannies in search of some privacy. Would they kiss? My heart raced at the thought. I wondered what it was like to really kiss a boy. I’d practiced endlessly on my pillow and my hand, perfecting what I imagined a kiss should be, hoping that, sometime soon, I would get the chance to experience the real thing.
I was still feeling giddy and light-headed from the wine cooler when I sensed a looming presence behind me. “Aimee Decker?” Goosebumps riddled my arms as I frantically searched my mind, trying to match the voice to a memory, but came up empty. I spun around, my breath catching in my throat, and locked eyes with him. Joe Logan. He was the son of my dad’s best friend, a guy who hadn’t forgiven me since his dad found the scratches on his precious pool table when we visited over a year ago. His stare was intense, like he was ready to settle the score, and my heart thudded in my chest.
“See this bitch, homies?” (I know, it was the nineties. Our slang left a lot to be desired.) “She got me in trouble with my dad, and I got the belt for a week.”
There were three boys who were taller and broader than me, their clothes baggy and their hair styled into high-top fades. They circled me like predators, their eyes dark and calculating, looking for any weakness they could exploit. My heart thundered in my chest, almost drowning out the jeers and taunts of the boys as they closed in on me, their voices leering and mocking. The sound of my own rapid breaths echoed in my ears.
“You can’t tattle tale now.” His face twisted into an ugly sneer as he turned to his friends with an idea. “I think we should teach her a lesson.”
All at once, and with an astonishing clarity, I realized I felt no fear. Okay, maybe the tiniest seed took root deep in my belly, but all I could do was laugh. (I tend to laugh when I am nervous.)
“What’s so fuckin’ funny, hoebag?”
As the boys inched closer into a tighter circle, the surrounding air thinned and my breath quickened in my chest. I can’t remember who pushed me first, but suddenly, I was being tossed around from boy to boy like one of those balls on the bumper pool table in Joe’s basement. I knew I should have been scared, and I knew most people would have been terrified. But a part of me was exhilarated. Being the center of all this male attention, mixed with the fizzy sweetness of the Bartles and Jaymes, was a heady cocktail for me. I hate to admit it, but it sent a rush of warmth through my body, making my skin tingle. Every one of my senses felt more alive, buzzing with a strange energy I didn’t fully understand. The laughter sounded louder, the lights seemed brighter, and every shove was a jolt that sent a thrill through my veins.
Eventually, I crashed onto the hard ground, the impact jarring every bone in my body. Instinctively, I curled up, pulling my arms and legs tightly into the fetal position, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. The air was thick with the taunting laughter of the boys surrounding me, their voices echoing in my ears. I felt the sharp sting as a kick landed squarely on my right shoulder blade, followed by a painful thud against my kidney. Each blow sent shockwaves through me, but they were too caught up in their brutal game, high-fiving each other with glee to notice. My long blonde hair fell like a curtain over my face, a shield to hide the conflicting emotions churning inside me. I knew I had to mask the grin threatening to surface. Even at the tender age of thirteen, I understood I wasn’t supposed to enjoy the pleasure in pain.
“What in the fuck?” Nicole screamed, her voice cutting through the chaos like a knife.
“Stop it, assholes. Get away from her!” Austin joined in, seemingly united with Nicole after their lengthy pirate ship make-out session.
The boys scattered in different directions, trailing behind Austin, while Nicole tugged me up with a firm grip and surveyed the dirt and scrapes on my arms and knees.
“Let’s go,” she urged, her voice trembling with concern. She clasped my hand tightly, pulling me towards the cracked sidewalk that led to our neighborhood.
Nicole peeled off her sweatshirt, the fabric soft and slightly damp with sweat, and handed it to me. “Put this on,” she insisted, her eyes wide. “You have to cover up the dirt, or my mom will never let us come here again.”
We trudged along in silence for a few moments, the sound of our footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves beneath us. I could feel the weight of her gaze on me as she studied my face. “Are you okay?” she finally asked, concern threading through her voice. “Remember, we can’t tell my mom what happened.”
I nodded and forced a tear, even though it felt fake. Somewhere deep down, I just knew I was supposed to say something like: “I was so scared. Can we go home now?”
So, I said it, letting the words tumble out just like I'd practiced in my head. But the truth was, I wasn’t scared at all, and I didn’t want to go home.
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