A Broken Boy-Shaped Thing

It was my last week at that school. We were moving and the whole class knew it. As an adult, I can understand how last-round game theory helped what happened next. In a week I’d be gone and there were no long-term social consequences to hurting me. I don’t remember the name of the teacher who thought that leaving some 8th graders alone, unsupervised, for an entire study hall was a good idea. I remember that he was a man.

Usually, I preferred to sit at the very front of the class. I had been bullied since the fourth grade and sitting closer to the teacher reduced the sneaky attacks. But that day, for some reason I don’t remember, I was sitting by the windows that day. The bullying had largely tapered off by then and maybe I felt brave enough to sit somewhere other than front and center. Maybe it was hot and I wanted a cool breeze. Maybe it was assigned seating by last name. I don’t know.

The minute the teacher left, the class scattered, breaking into clumps and chatting. Head-down in a book, I didn’t pay attention to what was going on until I heard a particular nasty *snigger.* I looked up to see the class dork walking towards me. I don’t remember his name but he was the skinny kid who, I now realize, probably has some form of social anxiety or was perhaps on the spectrum. As I’d gotten older, my bullies had gotten more social but his had gotten more physical.

I understand why he did what he did. But I don’t forgive him.

He was walking to me with his body held stiffly, his hand out, curved into a claw held low. Behind him, a clutch of popular boys were watching the scene and laughing in a low, dirty way. Their hot bright eyes were locked on me, eager and hateful.

“Go on,” one of them called and I realized that the dork was being egged on to do something by the popular boys. My entire body tightened up and I looked for an adult or an escape. But I was by the windows.

He walked up, elbow hard to his side, hand out, and leaned against my desk in a parody of casualness.

“What do you want?” I backed up, pushing myself against the back of the chair as far as I could.

He looked at me with such anger. I still don’t understand that anger but it was clear. It was laced with nervousness — he knew what he was trying to do might get him in trouble.

“Grab her by the pussy!” I am almost certain that’s what I remember the boys behind him shouting. But I could be wrong. Their sniggers so closely resemble Billy Bush’s that I can’t be sure I haven’t laminated the memories together. But I know that they said something that made his intentions clear.

In that moment, I felt things shift around me. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I was in the eighth grade, I was supposed to be safe in a classroom. It wasn’t fifth grade on the playground anymore, getting beat up by Richard and his friends away from where the monitors could see. I wasn’t even walking home, alone, dodging Linda and her friends. The parameters had suddenly changed and I hadn’t been on guard, wasn’t expecting this attack from this direction.

Shoving his hand down between my belly and the desk, he grabbed for my crotch. I knocked it away. He tried again. I jammed his arm against the edge of the desk, trapping it. His fingers clawed at my belly, scrabbling at my shirt.

He tried with his other hand and I had a harder time fending it off because I was holding his right hand. He was breathing through his nose, loudly, and his lips were drawn back from his teeth, bared in anger or grinning, I don’t know. I got an elbow in between his hand and my body and curled up to protect my crotch.

That movement brought my chest closer to his trapped hand. He clutched my breast with his whole hand, five fingers digging into the soft flesh before he wrenched it painfully. That seemed to satisfy him and he sat back away from me, turning to grin triumphantly as he returned to the sniggering boys.

The thing I remember most from that moment, while watching this boy who had just tried to assault me walk away, was rage. Rage and fury filled me like a roiling fire, barely contained in my skin. I felt lightheaded and disconnected from my body because there wasn’t enough room for both me and my rage.

Furious at the boy who had just mauled me. Furious at the boys who had used his position as an outsider to get him to do it. Furious at the other students who had watched or ignored the whole thing. Furious, most of all, at that teacher who had left us alone long enough for them to formulate and execute that plan. At school, I followed the rules — I was a good student and well behaved. On the playground and the walk home, I was on my own. I accepted that. But here, in the classroom, I was supposed to be given some protection. But this teacher, this asshole, had just walked out and left me to the jackals. He’d betrayed me.

That is how I feel today, looking at the polls. Betrayed.

Because Trump is that kid who grabbed me — a broken boy-shaped thing, without any morals, willing to debase himself — and me — just to get a scrap of approval from the popular kids. And mindlessly rageful at me for not simply letting him do it.

But every person who votes for Trump is saying that his behavior is OK. Not only OK, but in fact, good. Desirable even. Every person who votes for Trump, is saying that they approve of that boy cornering me in study hall and trying to grab my crotch. That’s the line in the sand that every Trump supporter crosses.

And I am again filled with fury and rage.