A long, long silence. A sniffle.
“Mom picked me up, and I pretended I was fine. I didn’t know how to tell her. And he’d told me not to. He’d told me before that he could make me famous, and he could make me like Taylor. He knew people. He said to just do what he told me and he could help me. And I just…I wanted to be a famous musician. So I didn’t tell Mom, and certainly not Dad or my sisters. Plus, I had promised them that having music lessons was not just a phase, that I was serious, and I knew Dad especially would be mad.
“Charlie was busy being the golden oldest child getting straight A’s in everything, and Cassie studied dance at this prestigious dance academy which was the same day and time as my music lesson in New York. So when I got in the car, Cassie was there too, and talking a mile a minute about plie this and arabesque that and she was going to be lead next year and she had a solo and blah blah blah. How could I tell Mom what had happened? I couldn’t. And my younger sisters were just little kids, and if Mom wasn’t driving us to lessons she was taking them to soccer or book club or Poppy’s art tutor. She was always busy. I wanted to tell her. I was scared and it had felt wrong and it made me feel gross, but there was just never a moment to be alone with her.
“And then it was the next lesson. He acted like nothing had happened. And then we began our work for the day, but Mom was late. She was usually late picking me up because Cassie’s teachers were sticklers for students leaving on time, so Mom always picked her up first and I was always waiting.”
I desperately wanted to comfort her—she sounded so sad and so broken.
She just squeezed my hand as hard as she could, as if to reassure herself that I was here, beside her, and that she was here with me.
“So, after a few minutes he asked me if I’d told anyone about our special lesson. I just shook my head, and he was like, good, because if anyone found out it would be very bad, and mostly for me. And he wanted to make me a famous musician, but if I told anyone, he wouldn’t be able to do that. And then he touched me again.” She faltered. “Then he said it would be better to have our special lesson upstairs. I knew he was going to do something I wouldn’t like, but I—I went along anyway. I don’t know why. I was so scared—I hadn’t told Mom what had happened last week and now it was happening again. Mom would never believe me now. Why didn’t I say something, right? I know it doesn’t make any sense explaining it now, but back then, it felt like I had no choice. He made me take off my skirt. And my underwear. And he touched me again.”
Another heavy silence.
A sniffle.
“My shirt. Everything. He locked the bedroom door. I remember my heart was pounding so hard it hurt, and my throat was…just closed. Hot, tight. I couldn’t have made a sound if I had tried. I was naked, and no one had seen me naked since I was a little girl, and that was my parents. I was shy, back then and I didn’t like even changing for gym class, and now there I was, naked in front of this grown man who had touched my privates. He…said we were going to have another special lesson, and I had to stay very quiet and do exactly what he told me. He made me lie down on his bed, and…pose for him. He took pictures with a—one of those cameras that print the picture…what are they called?”
“Polaroids.”
“Yeah, a Polaroid. He showed it to me, and said I was so beautiful.” Her voice was…wet, and thick. Hesitant. “He stood next to the bed and took off all his clothes. I’d never even seen Dad all the way naked, so that in itself was a shock, but then he grabbed my hand and put it on his dick. It was already hard, but when he made me touch it, it got even harder. So big, so…ugh. Horrible. Thick, hairy. Wrinkly. He wasn’t young. But clearly still…vigorous.” A shudder, a gagging sound. “So, uh. Yeah. He climbed up on the bed, and knelt over top of me, said this was going to hurt a little, and then he put it in me. I could tell even then he was trying to be gentle but he was too excited. Gentle didn’t last long.” A broken whisper now. “It hurt. So much. And then he started…the only way to put it is he fucked me. I couldn’t make a sound—I didn’t know what was happening and it hurt and I was terrified and it was just…so fucking wrong. But I couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t even speak. I never said no. I let it happen. That’s how I felt, then, and for years later. Deep down, I still believe I let it happen. I should have said something or done something. If I’d said no, please stop, please don’t…would he have…would he have not raped me? I didn’t say anything, but that’s what it was…rape.”
A long, dark, ugly, vicious silence.
“I wish that was the whole story. Touched a couple times, fucked once, and then I got the courage to stop it.” A
