Anyway, I have some other news. There are tons of other girls writing to us about how they had the same shitty experience. They want to talk to you. They want to hear more from you. And I want to hear more from you! I think you’re a rock star. You should probably also look at the comments on the Underground’s Instagram feed. They’re really supportive.
See you when you get back.
—T
* * *
I scan all the comments on Instagram where he posted it.
This sounds real.
I wish she would out the guy.
She had bruises on her arms just like me.
She sounds scared. I understand. I see his face every time I go to my school.
He said “she wanted to do it”—I’ve totally heard that.
This sounds like my life, and now I don’t know what to do.
I’ll never be over it.
I call my mom over. Show her everything. Give her my phone, shaking. The air is so still tonight. I can hear myself breathe. She pulls me out of the hammock. Brings me inside. My hand in hers.
We sit down together, sink into her sofa. She’s close to me. Stroking my arm. My fingers. Her sniffle, choking up. We read through comments and more comments and more. Hundreds of stories from hundreds of girls my age. Women my mom’s age.
It’s the first time that I really miss my dad. He’s always around, so I never have to miss him. But he reacts. When he sees this, he’s going to emote. He’s going to be upset. I’m not ready for that yet. My mother is more quiet. She’s what you’d call an active listener. My father is more like an active interrupter.
It feels like hours. My mom and I sifting through sexual assault articles. Organizations. Websites. Survivor groups. Countless affirmations. An overflow of relief washes over me. That I’m not alone. I didn’t know how much was out there. I didn’t know.
We end up on a website filled with photos of women holding up signs. They’ve all been raped. And their signs are quotes from their attacker.
Attacker.
I never thought of Sean Nessel like that. As an attacker. But he attacked me. I was attacked.
These girls and women (and a few men). Different body shapes and sizes. They cover their faces. Their signs are handwritten. The cruel and careless words they hold.
I think of what my attacker said to me.
How are we gonna clean all this shit up?
I scroll down through some of the signs. The words blare out like bloody screams.
One woman with long blond hair and a peaceful smile. She holds a large sign with perfect handwriting. You can only see her smile. It’s a lot like Blythe’s.
I don’t want to think about Blythe.
The girl’s sign says: Sorry about that. We’re cool though, right?
Her caption underneath: What my attacker said after I told him that I had said no.
I scroll down to another woman with super-short hair and tiny glasses. She’s wearing overalls and has a smiley-face T-shirt on. She looks young and kind of reminds me of Sammi.
Her sign says: Oh, hey, I remember you.
Her caption underneath: What my attacker said when I went up to him at school two days after he forced himself on me in a bathroom at a party. We were both drunk and I couldn’t stop him.
“We don’t have to keep going, Ali. This is a lot, honey.”
“I don’t want to stop.” I want to read them and read them until my eyes burn out. Until their words are seared into my mind. Until I’ve read every single one of them.
“I know. But how many of these can you read in one night? I don’t want you to— You’re so fragile. I don’t think you realize how fragile you are.” I turn toward my mother, who is crying. “You don’t have to stop. I’m just saying to take a break. Give yourself time to digest this.”
“I feel like if I don’t read it all now, it’s going to disappear. That I have to just infuse it into me. Does that make any sense?”
“Ali,” she says, a deep sadness in her voice. “This isn’t going anywhere.”
I always wished my mother was more like Sammi’s mother. Cooking and cleaning around the house and listening to old records. Making lasagna on Sunday night. My mother’s a person. A human. With flaws. She’s real. She’s herself. She lives in a peach-colored shack in the middle of the desert.
I think of Blythe again. One day she’ll be sitting alone, wondering what happened to the real friendships in her life. What happened to the Devons and the Donnies and the Sukis and the Sean Nessels. She’ll wonder why it was so hard for her to please all of them. Why what she gave them wasn’t enough.
“I’d like to come back to New Jersey with you if you want me to,” my mom says.
But that’s not what I want.
I want to be one of those girls with the sign.
I want to be the girl who says what’s been done to me. To record my story. Without anyone holding my hand. Just me. And my sign. My story. My words.
I lean into her, my head on her chest, and she strokes my hair. “I just want to be whatever you need from me right now,” she says.
But this is all I really need right now. Just this.
51
BLYTHE
I’m headachy and feel like I’m going to puke. But Donnie wants to go up to the old cliffs. She says it’ll get my mind off things. And she’s meeting someone up there. A new friend named Dylan. Donnie’s secret life.
She curls her fingers like she’s a witch. She’s wearing these long silver rings; they look like body armor against her slight hands.
“I have a crystal ball.
