AMY ELLIOTT

always

 I have a story that wants to be told.

"Hush, Gillian. I’m not ready to be told." Hear me . . . See me . . . Feel me . . .

You were always mature for your age and naive, too. When you were six, Jean Norma took your answers on a spelling test. When you raised your hand to tell and get a new seat she made you look like the cheater, and you both got chided. Weeks later, it didn’t much matter. When you were eleven, Kelly Jane took your football at recess, and when you took it back she accused you of starting a fight. You both got called to the principal’s office and reprimanded, but your good records prevented any further action. When you were barely fifteen, Bobby Heller took something from you, something you couldn’t take back, and you never told . . .

Teachers believe the alphabetical seating arrangement works, but it doesn’t. In Spanish you got seated next to Bobby because of names. It was a freak occurrence, a blind act of the fates, that his H-E-L-L-E-R should come exactly seven seats from your E-L-D-E-R, so that he sat in the desk immediately to your right, exactly one row over. His yearbook photo showed him as the quiet, shy guy who sat in the back row, but that of course depended on perception. You had known the little monster since grade school and were overjoyed for the reprieve middle school provided when he was sent to Roosevelt Junior High School instead of Kennedy because he lived on the opposite end of town. Yet, you re-encountered him far too soon in high school. There you found that the years had not helped him mature.

The boy who had bragged that he knew German in grade school, because his father had taught him, was worse than ever. Bobby’s hatred of anyone who was not like him, or like his ideal, had grown even more vehement. He had a slight ego problem. He was of course best at everything, at least according to Bobby. He was a football player -- a third stringer who always warmed the bench, but swore he could kick anyone of the first string’s asses. His English was poor, his Spanish was atrocious, and it was probable that his German was non-existent since he never spoke a word of it. He had a tiny, blond-haired, blue-eyed, rail-thin sister who must have been his image of the perfect woman, since he always put her on a pedestal -- she even wore his jersey on Fridays. Bobby, however, was a short, medium-built, brown-haired, gray-eyed, foul-tempered, arrogant pain. Mick Saunders was another football player in your class. He was a linebacker and overweight like you. So naturally, Bobby called Mick a fat-ass.

"Hey fat-ass," he’d vomit in his normal choppy, monotone, disgusted voice, as if talking by force to someone multitudes below his status.

"Hey fat-ass. Why don’ you slim down? Know what? I know dis guy-- he’ give you some stuff to turn that fat into muscle. ‘Den you can do your job better."

He had no room to talk -- at least Mick played in games. Unlike Mick, you had three things against you besides weight: you were a girl, you were smart, and you had been the object of his hatred for six years.

You were an excellent student, and, like any excellent student, always got to class early and took your seat. Unfortunately, Bobby was always in Spanish early too. This left him five minutes every day in which to torment you. Mostly it didn’t bother you. It was annoying and tiresome, but you had learned years before how to ignore all the mean-spirited taunting fat jokes and all the inconsiderate kids telling them. So you ignored him -- mostly you read -- and that galled him. He couldn’t get to you in that way anymore, so one day he found a new way. Sitting in an empty room while all the other kids chattered in the hall, Bobby decided to kill his enemy with kindness. Hear me . . .

"Hey fat-ass!" You gave no response, but just kept cool.

"Hey you fat dumb bitch!" You steeled yourself a little more, checking the temper rising at his ignorance, refusing to give him any satisfaction in a response.

"What! You deaf ? You think your smart don’ cha?" You kept silent, trying not to let his taunts get through.

"Hey. . . Hey. . . Hey. . ." Three taps on your arm in rapid succession each escalating in intensity until the last was a punch, "I wanna ask you a question."

"What?" you blurted frustratedly as you turned to face the weasel, finally giving in, "Just leave me alone!"

"Hey," in a whisper, as if to keep his voice from the empty contents of the room, "you ever fucked anybody?"

"Shut up, you jerk. Leave me alone." So you turned back to your book once again to observe your vigilance of ignoring the pest. Vulgarity was not unusual from him -- he’d try anything to provoke a reaction.

"Hey, no, really. You and me tonight . . ."

"Shut up and leave me alone!!" You threatened louder with fury in your voice as you turned to face your tormentor.

You were fearless, even brazen, then. It was quite probable that if the situation presented itself, you would have told the Pope where to get off. You would stare anyone down or stand up to anyone in a fight -- what was there to lose? So what if you got the tar kicked out of you? At least you defended yourself.

Eye to eye with the dirty little bastard, and all you wanted was for him to leave you alone -- forget that you even existed. See me . . . Instead he looked into your fiery eyes, and out of pure gall started in with:

"Hey baby . . . wadda you say?"

"Stop-it!"

"Come on, it’ll feel nice" as he started rubbing, stroking and fondling you. Feel me . . .

"Shut up and Don’t Touch Me!" you stated forcefully with anger rising, or was it fear, in your eyes, a nauseous feeling overtaking your stomach and a racing heart.

"Come on, baby . . . you know you want it!" he whispered in his best attempt at seduction.

"Shut up and keep your hands off me!!" you yelled, fury finally overflowing, while pushing his hand away; and, finally the bell rang, and people started pouring into the room, including the teacher. Bobby just turned in his seat and laughed hideously -- like he had just won the war -- like he was in control. You spent the entire class period with your stomach in a knot, on the verge of exploding either in a fit of rage or a torrent of tears. Conjugating verbs just didn’t keep your attention; nothing did. You had been violated and you knew he would do it again -- but how much farther would he go the next time? You had to do something.

"Cristina -- complete number one on the board, please," Senor asked.

"Si, Senor. Yo tengo un perro negro," you answered him, dully wondering how many times he’d asked the question.

"Bien, Senorita!"

"Guillermo, numero ocho por favor?" Senor continued.

"Huh? What?"

"Number eight please, Senor Heller."

"Oh, yea, yea. Y-y-yo t-t-tingo un g-g-gateo."

Your only revenge and comfort was to laugh inside as he struggled to formulate a semi--coherent Spanglish sentence, and to know that you would always be more intelligent than him and twice the human being; but that didn’t really help either.

"Yo tengo un gato, Mr. Heller. If you actually did the homework it might help," Senor intoned boredly.

You spent all of band class and most of the night in either a introverted foul mood or tears, trying to figure out what to do. "Should I tell?" you pondered. "If I don’t what will happen? Will anyone believe me? How can I go to Spanish tomorrow? I can’t skip it. I can’t let him run my life -- he will win if I do." The weight of the world rested on those young shoulders. You thought of asking your parents for advice, but thought better of it: "No, they don’t need to know. They would only overreact, and besides I’m fifteen. I can handle my own problems." So you kept your mouth shut.

Of course, it didn’t go away; nothing ever does. Time’s passage did not help. You considered telling Senor the whole truth, but reasoned instead that you didn’t know him very well and he was kind of strict. There had been similar complaints in the school before, and you figured he’d probably think you were jumping on the bandwagon. Daily your insides knotted and your head ached, reminding you that something had to be done -- it wasn’t stopping or regressing -- who could you trust; who would believe you? You tried so bravely to handle it all so professionally.

Mrs. Shoemaker was from the same city as Senor. They had grown up together, literally. Senor’s sister was Mrs. Shoemaker’s best friend, and as such the two teachers were good friends. Mrs. Shoemaker had been the freshman English teacher the year before and knew you fairly well from class. You decided to ask her to speak to Senor on your behalf. She did, but Senor insisted on a personal conference. One day Mrs. Shoemaker pulled you out of first period. Shocked, you followed, only to be further surprised when she returned to her classroom leaving you with Senor in the hall. Surprise quickly turned to terror, which was followed closely by nervousness when he finally spoke: "Walk with me. Talk with me." It was a kind, gentle, and caring voice, much different from the one who played the role of teacher in seventh-period Spanish. This eased your nervousness some, but the terrifying truth still prickled your mind and tongue struggling to escape, but was checked and withheld by the gatekeeper, fear. You couldn’t tell him the whole truth, but, instead, managed to choke out that you’d like to have your seat moved so that you didn’t have to be near Bobby. He knew basically why; Mrs. Shoemaker had told him that. And he had the decency not to ask you to repeat it. "I don’t want any trouble; I just want to be moved and forget about it," you said surely, though your eyes pleaded in timidity.

Senor was like the genie in the lamp. He granted it all. He didn’t stir up any trouble. He gave you a new seat. Actually, he moved everyone in class so as not to single you out and make a spectacle. He placed you safely in front of his desk, and eventually all was forgotten. You repressed the entire ordeal. It was over, and your secret was safe amongst only three -- no one else knew and they didn’t need to.

Years later it all came back one painful night, and you understood better than ever exactly what had happened and what it meant. Sex, love, and other matters of the adult heart and psyche were much clearer as an adult. For Bobby it had nothing to do with sex, love, or lust. It was only a power trip, food for an ever-starving ego -- the only way he had left to hurt or control, which was all that mattered to him. That same hideous laugh still rings through your ears. Hear me . . . You can still see his malicious little teenage face behind your closed eyes. See me . . . The event constantly plays on the little memory movie screen in the back of your mind, ticking the minutes until implosion. Feel me . . . Yet, what haunts you most, to this very day, is the look in his eyes -- so power-filled, controlling, evil, and victorious. He could see the fear in your eyes, the fear you didn’t even know was there, and he knew he had won -- and he didn’t care what he took away.

What you thought was anger at the time was really only partly so. You were furious with Bobby, but also with the traitorous heart which sped up with fear and sensation. Feel me . . . As much as you hated the boy touching -- you liked the touch (it was damning human nature) but you would never admit any of this. And that same rapid heartbeat and increased breathing was from fear -- how to make him stop -- because you didn’t want it to happen. Not there, not then, not with him!

Strong and fearless as you were, nothing could have stopped him. There was nothing you could have done -- impotence. Hear me . . . For years the mantra rang out: "If only I had . . . been stronger . . . more violent" -- the list went on and on, but the truth is that nothing you could have done would have stopped it -- and that chills you to the bone. After all the work to protect yourself, to barricade yourself in, you are still helpless -- still vulnerable. You understand better now, though you still wonder sometimes. Time and age have made it clear why you could pray to go out with a man but never carry it out despite opportunity; why you’ve never had a date; why you shrunk away from touch; why you cannot look a man in the eyes; why you still don’t trust men. You cannot -- because of one boy. It explains your bond with your Spanish teacher -- a silent savior -- he protected. Maybe it explains all of these things and more -- never telling another soul the truth, even though it’s clear you needed to, and always feeling like you had a sign hung around your neck reading: ‘Warning Damaged Goods.’ See me . . . Grandma said it best in Their Eyes Were Watching God: "Put me down easy, Janie, Ah’m a cracked plate."

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