know.”
“Never?” George asked.
“It’s you she loves.”
I was some kind of final witness, a barometer of truth.
When Joy and I got to high school, she was exploratory and I was college prep, so we didn’t have homeroom together anymore,
and there was no class we had in common. Yet we continued to be friends, if distantly, and when some girls began to call my
house, accusing me of everything from stuffing my bra to thinking I was better than everyone else, it was Joy I went to.
“Who do you think it is?” she asked me when I got done telling her what was going on.
“I know one of them is Cheryl Korr. But I always hear two voices on the phone.”
“It’s probably that Jane Zimmerman. What do they say to you?”
“They say, ‘We don’t like the way you act.’ ”
“They don’t even know you.”
“I don’t know how else I’m supposed to act. I’m just being myself.”
“Cheryl doesn’t have any guts anyway,” Joy said. “I’ll talk to them. Next time I see them in the bathroom.”
And I knew she had done it, because one afternoon Jane Zimmerman called, crying, saying she was sorry.
“I didn’t want to make those calls to you,” she said. “I didn’t want to hurt you. It was Cheryl’s idea.”
No one called my house again.
The truth was I did think I was better than some people in my school. Certainly better than beefy Cheryl Korr. But I did not
think I was better than everyone, and I did not think I was better than Joy. Which was why the next thing that happened bothered
me so much, though I told myself it needn’t. No one else ever knew about it. It started with me and ended with me.
It happened one day in early spring of tenth grade. I was walking down the hall at school and saw Joy coming toward me. I
don’t know if I noticed from a long way off , or if it took me a few seconds to see.
Months earlier, I’d gone through my closet to get together old clothes to sell at the thrift shop in town. One of the things
I got rid of was a long-sleeved black shirt with a keyhole neckline. I loved the shirt in seventh grade, but once my breasts
got bigger, my mother told me it looked obscene and I felt funny wearing it.
That was the shirt Joy was wearing this particular day. My old shirt. It still had the button at the keyhole neck sewn with
white thread, the crummy fix-up job I’d done when I was too lazy to find a spool of black. The shirt was tight on Joy, too,
but that was part of the way she dressed: low hip-hugger jeans and tight shirts.
I told myself she never would have bought the shirt if she remembered me wearing it in the seventh grade, if she had known
it used to be mine. I told myself it didn’t really matter where people got their clothes from anyway. Still, I felt funny
that the shirt made its way to her, that she was getting her clothing from the thrift shop on South Main.
“Hey, Suzanne,” Joy said when we drew near each other in the hall, while I was staring at that button with white thread. I
could tell she’d seen me startle, but her face was not angry or embarrassed. Only puzzled.
“Hey, Joy,” I said back, and we kept on walking to get to class before the bell rang.
The night I was raped, my boyfriend Cree was doing one of his disappearing acts. He’d stood me up for a date earlier in the
week— left me sitting on the front steps, looking up and down the street, waiting for his green car to come driving up. When
he didn’t bother to even call to apologize, I told myself there were other places I could go for what he gave. I wasn’t the
same girl I’d been in seventh grade: when Cree stood me up, I not only had hurt feelings, but I also had to suppress all the
sexual imagining I’d beendoing for days. I loved Cree’s body so much, and I liked all the places we had sex: an old mine road in Ravine; a meadow up
on 895, where the Appalachian Trail ran; beside an abandoned farm-house in Deturksville, where we liked to
“Never?” George asked.
“It’s you she loves.”
I was some kind of final witness, a barometer of truth.
When Joy and I got to high school, she was exploratory and I was college prep, so we didn’t have homeroom together anymore,
and there was no class we had in common. Yet we continued to be friends, if distantly, and when some girls began to call my
house, accusing me of everything from stuffing my bra to thinking I was better than everyone else, it was Joy I went to.
“Who do you think it is?” she asked me when I got done telling her what was going on.
“I know one of them is Cheryl Korr. But I always hear two voices on the phone.”
“It’s probably that Jane Zimmerman. What do they say to you?”
“They say, ‘We don’t like the way you act.’ ”
“They don’t even know you.”
“I don’t know how else I’m supposed to act. I’m just being myself.”
“Cheryl doesn’t have any guts anyway,” Joy said. “I’ll talk to them. Next time I see them in the bathroom.”
And I knew she had done it, because one afternoon Jane Zimmerman called, crying, saying she was sorry.
“I didn’t want to make those calls to you,” she said. “I didn’t want to hurt you. It was Cheryl’s idea.”
No one called my house again.
The truth was I did think I was better than some people in my school. Certainly better than beefy Cheryl Korr. But I did not
think I was better than everyone, and I did not think I was better than Joy. Which was why the next thing that happened bothered
me so much, though I told myself it needn’t. No one else ever knew about it. It started with me and ended with me.
It happened one day in early spring of tenth grade. I was walking down the hall at school and saw Joy coming toward me. I
don’t know if I noticed from a long way off , or if it took me a few seconds to see.
Months earlier, I’d gone through my closet to get together old clothes to sell at the thrift shop in town. One of the things
I got rid of was a long-sleeved black shirt with a keyhole neckline. I loved the shirt in seventh grade, but once my breasts
got bigger, my mother told me it looked obscene and I felt funny wearing it.
That was the shirt Joy was wearing this particular day. My old shirt. It still had the button at the keyhole neck sewn with
white thread, the crummy fix-up job I’d done when I was too lazy to find a spool of black. The shirt was tight on Joy, too,
but that was part of the way she dressed: low hip-hugger jeans and tight shirts.
I told myself she never would have bought the shirt if she remembered me wearing it in the seventh grade, if she had known
it used to be mine. I told myself it didn’t really matter where people got their clothes from anyway. Still, I felt funny
that the shirt made its way to her, that she was getting her clothing from the thrift shop on South Main.
“Hey, Suzanne,” Joy said when we drew near each other in the hall, while I was staring at that button with white thread. I
could tell she’d seen me startle, but her face was not angry or embarrassed. Only puzzled.
“Hey, Joy,” I said back, and we kept on walking to get to class before the bell rang.
The night I was raped, my boyfriend Cree was doing one of his disappearing acts. He’d stood me up for a date earlier in the
week— left me sitting on the front steps, looking up and down the street, waiting for his green car to come driving up. When
he didn’t bother to even call to apologize, I told myself there were other places I could go for what he gave. I wasn’t the
same girl I’d been in seventh grade: when Cree stood me up, I not only had hurt feelings, but I also had to suppress all the
sexual imagining I’d beendoing for days. I loved Cree’s body so much, and I liked all the places we had sex: an old mine road in Ravine; a meadow up
on 895, where the Appalachian Trail ran; beside an abandoned farm-house in Deturksville, where we liked to
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