A big girl now

I was 12 and he was, he said, 19. A man of the world, grown up and mature, I thought. He would tell me the silliest jokes. At first. As time went on, the joking stopped, except for the occasional lewd one.

I hadn’t been raised to appreciate such foul humor, but I laughed anyway, wanting to show how very grown up and au courant I was.

Our local indoor swimming pool was where I liked to spend most of my free time. I loved to swim and, as I improved, I accumulated a lot of badges to attest to my ability.

There were two lifeguards at the pool, at all times, keeping an eye on the pool and the kids in it. They stood at opposite sides of the pool, though sometimes they’d confer with each other about something or other.

The day he first appeared, my stomach did the butterfly thing people talk about. He was gorgeous, at least as far as I was concerned. He was lean and muscular and, in his swim trunks, looked breathtaking. As least as far as I was concerned. My friend Holly agreed, so amid whispers and giggles, we’d often stalk him –unobserved, or though we believed – from the water, willing him to take notice of us. We planned to talk to him after every session, but always chickened out. Besides, he seemed taken with the girls who lifeguarded with him. That was upsetting to us, but we adored him nonetheless.

When our class ended one Thursday evening, Holly and I were hanging around the lobby, hoping for a sighting of our adonis. We had an hour to kill before her mother was picking us up, and had bought some snacks from the vending machine. Before I had taken my first bite of barbecue chips, I saw him. Kind of leaning out the door to the lockers and change areas. I squinted over Holly’s head to make sure it was actually him. It was, and he was looking directly at me. How embarrassing. He obviously knew the two of us had taken a huge interest in his whereabouts.

He seemed to motion that he wanted me to come over to him. I told myself that it was just my imagination, my wildest fantasy that he’d want to talk to me. But he persisted in what I thought and hoped, was an invitation. I completely forgot about Holly and made a beeline in his direction, despite the butterflies and how red I knew my face must have been.

That was when it began. He said he’d watched me during swim class and complimented the three bathing suits I rotated each week. He said they accentuated my body. In a good way.

He had me hooked.

We began to meet secretly after the Thursday class in the wooded area behind the building. I told my mother that Holly and I wanted to go to the doughnut shop a few blocks from the swimming pool, every now and then. Could she pick me up from there an hour later than usual? She could. I don’t know why she didn’t smell the weed on my clothes and the odd taint of beer on my breath. But she didn’t.

The day I turned 13, he said he had a gift for me. I was nearly giddy with anticipation as I headed to our spot. We had kissed a few times. I was OK with that, but he wanted to take it further. It was truly tempting, but I knew better than to relent to his suggestions. As the weeks went on, the suggestions turned to requests that, I thought, became rather angry, almost demanding.

He was there waiting, grinning sloppily, a half-smoked joint in his right hand. He patted my usual spot and I settled in. My heart was pounding and I felt my breath catch in my throat with excitement. He wished me a Happy Birthday and handed me a tiny unwrapped cardboard.

I think I gasped, in confusion and disappointment. “This is my present?” I ventured, when I opened it as pleasantly and nonchalantly as possible. My heart sank. “This is a condom,” I said in what I’m sure was shock. Holly and I knew all about such things.

He nodded, clasping his arm firmly around my shoulders.

There was something different about him, about the atmosphere. “You’re a big girl now,” he half-whispered in my ear.

Before I had time to respond, he lunged at me, and it began.

I tried to resist but he was too strong for my futile attempts to push him off. I tried to yell, but he put his hand over my mouth.

That’s as far as I can let my memory travel nowadays. The rest is much too painful.

My parents love having a grandson, and they dote relentlessly over little Dermot, my beautiful boy.

They are helping me to raise him because I’m only 14.