Staring Contest

When I was nine or ten, I often went over to a neighbor’s house.

The neighbor, a childhood playmate, lived in a building that would best be described as ramshackle — though that word is still far too quaint to describe the damage inside. In one part of the house, the floor had fallen in, and my friend and I would have to leap over this spot. As an adult, it bothered me to think that they couldn’t walk through their house without falling — but as a child, leaping over this gap was just another fun activity.

We behaved — most of the time. We once acted up by eating some of her mom’s weight-loss chocolates, which terrified me, because I thought I’d taken medicine. I didn’t want to misbehave — and I never wanted to be a bad guest. They were kind enough to have me over, after all. Even though their house was ramshackle, I had the sense that the family cared deeply about each other. They were just stretched thin.

One afternoon, when I came over to play for a couple of hours, my friend told me to not stare at the babysitter. She almost didn’t want to let me in, because “she’s afraid you’ll laugh at her.” I was perplexed. Why would a teenager be afraid that a child would laugh at them?

When I came around the corner, I was struck with terror. I can’t remember much about the girl now, but I remember two things about her: she had blonde hair, and she had a black eye so swollen that the bruise enveloped about a third of her face. The spot was alternately purple and black, a tie-dyed injury.

I remember that she was sitting on a couch, and that she had to look up at me, from that lower spot. Because of this, she looked vulnerable. She looked terrified. She looked more like a child than I did.

“Her boyfriend did it,” my friend said.

“I’m not going to laugh,” I said, trying to will myself not to cry. I didn’t even know what words like domestic violence or battery meant — but I knew that what had happened was completely inappropriate. I wouldn’t have had the words to tell her to leave him, because I didn’t even have the words to tell her I was sorry that someone had hurt her.

I looked away, and then I looked back at her, and then I finally looked away, back at my friend. We went on playing.

I never saw that girl again — although I imagine that, as grown women, we may have walked past each other at Wal-Mart or Food Giant.

I wonder what I would say to her now, if I recognized her. There are so many empty phrases that come to mind — but they would feel too little, too late, too spurious.

I wouldn’t know what to say — but I would meet her gaze. If she smiled, I would smile. If she frowned, then I would feel uneasy all afternoon, all day, all week.

I would feel helpless. I would just want to telepathically communicate that I hoped she never saw him again — that she didn’t see him after he hit her, that she hadn’t seen him in the years since, that she would never see him — or the likes of him — again.

When I was in college, I had to go to the mall to buy a new bra. While I was there, I realized that I needed to be measured properly, so that I’d buy the right thing.

The shop attendant who helped me was a dainty young woman. She had short curls, very well cared for. She smiled the entire time. She had a kind disposition, and she seemed sincere.

As the tape passed around my underbust, I felt keenly aware of how nasty I felt. I realized that I probably hadn’t shaved that morning, and I wondered if my deodorant was still working. I felt disgusting in the face of such a sweet, kind, helpful young woman. She was a woman. I was an ogre in need of some help.

A couple years later, I saw the girl who measured me in line at a bakery. She was with a young man who I can only assume was her boyfriend. She smiled at him, but she didn’t seem the same. Still, she seemed transfixed by him. She turned to him to point out things on the wall, on the menu, in the glass display cases.

But he kept turning around to stare at me.

I wondered if she’d noticed me, behind them in line, and pointed out who I was. That’s that smelly woman. From the store. Maybe she told him, maybe she didn’t. He still kept turning and staring, kept looking at me from feet to toe, kept making eye contact with me.

He looked slightly familiar. He looked like a former classmate I’d had a fleeting crush on, but he was a little more preppy, a little more lean, a little shorter. If he was the same young man, he was less attractive than my memory made him out to be.

I kept staring. He kept staring. We didn’t break eye contact.

I didn’t like the looks of him — and I didn’t like the looks coming from him. I suddenly questioned her judgment, dating a guy like that. A nosy guy, a lookie-loo, an obviously judgmental man. I could sense it all: judgment, superiority, smugness. Perhaps even a sense of ownership — as if he deserved and was entitled to everything in front of him.

I was suddenly seized by the urge to reach out for her, to grab her by the shoulders and tell her to leave her boyfriend, too.

I realize he’s not a bad person — probably better than many. But he’s doing too much. He might not be a bad man, but he isn’t a good man. I can just tell.

I felt silly. I knew you just couldn’t do that. Nobody does that. Not even the smelly woman from the bra store. Not even her.

I felt overinvolved, but I also felt helpless. I was silent, as always. I’ve learned how to be silent — I’ve had lots of practice. So I kept my mouth shut. But I kept staring. I’ve also learned how to be vigilant, how to be watchful, how to be aware.

The young man finally turned away from me, and he never looked back. But I kept watching. I am not weak. I am not silly. I am aware. I’ve seen your type before. I know what a privileged person can try to get away with, when they think no one is watching. I may be no one, but I am watching. I am a witness.

I’ve learned that even when I can’t will myself to be Cassandra, I have to act like Medusa. It’s not in my best interest to close my eyes or look away.