i’ve been a fool

My mother entrusts my well-being into the hands of a boy desperate for approval, desperate to be taken seriously. I begrudgingly accept that he’s my temporary protector, and before we leave the house, he comments on my clothes.

Ah. Now I know — he can’t protect me from greedy boys, because he is also a greedy boy with hungry eyes as he rakes them over my cleavage as I crutch down to tie my shoelaces.

The party we’re at is full of boys. Minors with bad table manners and barely-there facial hair. Boys nearly in their late adolescence blast rap music though the speakers and subtly try to one-up each other in invisible face-offs only they care about.

More boys arrive.

I drink; mixing drinks I’m not supposed to mix and downing them like water and I’m stuck in the desert. I am no longer a captive of my anxiety, so I run my mouth.

More boys arrive.

One of them says something that doesn’t sit right with me. Emotions are at an all time high, so, naturally, I let my disdain for him escape through my mouth and tone of voice and facial expressions.

He sees it as a provocation. Of course he does, he’s surrounded by a dozen other boys desperate to prove themselves to each other, so he takes a boxing stance. He starts hitting the air separating him and I, as if to show me what I’ve got to be afraid of if I mess with him.

It’s not enough, of course it’s not enough for an insatiable adolescent boy, so he, naturally, craves more and he, naturally, gets handsy with me. He comes up behind me and snakes his hands around my exposed hips and lifts me off the ground.

There’s a bonfire, glowing brightly and my face ends up hovering threateningly close to it. I shout or shriek or scream — the intensity fluctuates. My face gets hot and his fingers around my waist leave a starching mark on my skin.

I am scared, because I know I am weak. I am scared, because the alcohol in my system does not mix well with the adrenaline that’s pumping through my veins and because he is sober. I am scared, because no one does anything. They all watch closely, nobody daring to move, as if they are waiting for him to drop me into the fire or set me down.

He does neither. Instead, the boy hurls me onto the ground and dirt covers the hem of my jeans and it sticks to the soles of my shoes.

Boys stop arriving.

I throw what’s left of my beer onto him and call him a bitch. I hug a nearby pole, one of the many holding the house together. He calls me dumb, and demands a hug — as some sort of compensation for his behavior. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t take no for an answer.

I try to explain how his behavior is unacceptable, but my words come out slurred. He calls me dumb. A boy younger than him, red hoodie and black trousers, steps in and let’s him know I’m visibly scared of him. He backs off. He calls me dumb.

Another few hours passed. No new boys arrive.

My supposed protector scolds me and takes a fresh drink out of my hand. Orders me not to drink anymore, because if I do, we’re heading home. This is how he has understood my mother’s strict plea. He thinks he’s supposed to watch out for drinks, not greedy boys with glue for hands.

I don’t listen and drink some more. After a few minutes, I’m told we’re heading home. I put on a smile and convince myself that what has occurred was a fragment of my imagination. As soon as I step into the house, my mother is waiting for me, staring at me disapprovingly and with her hands on her hips.

Ah. Now I know — greedy boys do not protect you from other greedy boys. They offer you up on a silver platter without any remorse.