THIRTEEN
Aliya
THREE YEARS AGO
“Do you realize what you’ve done? You’re lucky Mr. Jameson didn’t want to call the police!”
I’ve been sitting in the office of the social worker, Ms. Harris, for twenty minutes now.
The reason? I hit our principal’s son with a chair.
My gaze is fixed on my hands.
They are shaking. And yet not a single person asks me why I took this brutal action.
They always assume that I’m a pubescent child who is rebelling.
No one suspects that he might have done something to me.
No one thinks that he could have tried to touch me.
No one accuses him of forcing himself on a minor.
No one blames him for touching my breasts.
It’s like a vicious circle. It happens over and over again.
While I’m the victim, they portray me as the one to blame.
Instead of staying silent, I could stand up from my seat, yell at Ms. Harris, confront her with the pure truth. I could recite all the dirty words Mr. Jameson whispered in my ear. I could show her the places on my body he touched without permission. I could explain to her that the chair I hit him with was the only way to stop him.
And yet I remain quiet.
It hurts much less when you are misunderstood without having spoken the truth.
I’m used to that, I can live with that.
“You are temporarily suspended until we have clarified if you are still allowed to stay at school. Your parents have already been informed, you can wait for them in the hallway.”
Instead of waiting for my mother in the hallway as we had discussed, I go to the girls’ restroom. My hands are still shaking uncontrollably as I splash cold water on my face.
Someone else might have cried in my place, but no tears leave my eyes. Instead, my thoughts are once again burdened by dark memories.
The air around me thickens as I feel my chest grow tighter.
I know this feeling.
It’s the same as when Lio pulled me back at the last second.
Shaking my head, I splash more cold water on my face to return to reality.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
It’s been two days since I grabbed a pair of scissors and cut off my long brown hair, unconcerned about uneven strands. Every time I look at myself, it feels strange now. Like I’m trapped in a stranger’s body.
I need to talk to Lio.
He is the only one who can calm my inner turmoil.
The only person who can pull me out of the role of the victim without casting me as the culprit.
I hastily fumble for my phone and tap his name. But before I press the call button, I pause.
It’s just ten in the morning.
That is selfish of me to call him. He has also other things to do.
So I lower my hand again.
I shouldn’t burden him.
The trembling of my hands intensifies as I leave the girls’ restroom. I sit down on the steps and wait for my mother to pick me up as the seething panic inside me tries to erupt.
You must have misunderstood, Aliya.
My mother’s voice is pounding in my ears and my walls of reality begin to shake.
Don’t be so dramatic, Aliya.
Her words and the images of that certain night cast a dark shadow over my thoughts.
“Is everything okay?”
I hear a voice but make no effort to look up. I’m far too caught up in my own little bubble, which is gradually draining my energy.
Someone sits down on the step next to me, but my gaze still lingers on my trembling hands.
An avalanche of today’s events comes over me like a flash of inspiration, as if I’m only now realizing them.
Mr. Jameson’s hands on my legs.
Under my shirt.
On my breasts.
Every repressed touch seems to make its way to the surface.
“Are you okay?” A hand rests on my shoulder.
The unexpected touch snaps me out of my thoughts, but at the same time reinforces the unpleasant memory of the unwanted touches I was subjected to this morning.
A panic jolts through my body and without thinking, my hand shoots out with full force and gives the person next to me an unwanted slap.
A moment of silence follows as surprise hangs in the air.
I stare at Shin Masuda from my class, who looks at me with his mouth open. He holds the slapped spot with his right hand. “What …” he stammers. “What was that for?”
All the voices and touches that had been running riot in my head until a moment ago are replaced by sudden embarrassment.
But instead of apologizing for hitting him, I act differently. “Don’t touch me.”
His eyes widen in horror. “What?”
Without replying, I reach for my backpack and rise from my seat.
He’s not the only one who is dismayed, because I’m just as confused and stunned by my impulsive act.
I leave him behind, upset and speechless, while I find somewhere else to wait.