“Can I please go?” I begged my mom over the phone. I was 14, it was a half-day at school, and all I wanted was to hang out at my friend’s house—the one everyone admired for her glossy hair and perfect features. My mom wasn’t thrilled about the idea.
My friend had a brother—the one all the girls swooned over—and he would be there that day, along with a notorious troublemaker from our class and my friend’s boyfriend. I kept those details to myself.
Why did she get to do all the fun things like having a boyfriend, staying out late, and sneaking cigarettes in her room? My mom was always so strict. It felt like I was missing out on everything.
“Fine,” my mom finally relented, exasperated. She was busy at work, and I had worn her down. I hung up the pay phone and headed over.
The boys were already there, and they had brought some alcohol. I had never tried it before, but I thought a small amount wouldn’t hurt. The effect hit me fast, and soon I was struggling to stay conscious. My friend, the one with the glossy hair and perfect features, had disappeared into another room with her boyfriend. I was shocked; I couldn’t believe she would be so bold. I wasn’t even allowed to talk on the phone after 10 p.m., let alone have a boy over.
Her parents were in the midst of a messy divorce, which created a tense home environment. My friend had become manipulative, playing both parents against each other. I remember a moment when she sat on her dad’s lap, giving her mother a look that was both vicious and victorious.
But at that age, when you think you can handle everything, the reality of blacking out is far from cool.
I found myself alone with two boys, barely able to keep my consciousness. I vaguely recall being in her brother’s room, trying to stop the spinning. The troublemaker was half-naked, laughing and coming towards me. The next thing I remember was being in a closet with my friend’s brother, the one everyone loved, and him asking me, “Do you suck dick?” as he pushed my head down.
I came to briefly in a shower, disoriented and vulnerable. The troublemaker peeked in, laughed, and left. I was slumped on the floor, feeling the weight of my body and the embarrassment of my situation.
Eventually, I woke up in a stranger’s bed. I learned later that my friend’s brother had dropped me off at the house of one of his friends while trying to cover his tracks. This girl was known for her drug use, and I felt out of place. I heard voices downstairs and, as I made my way down, I touched my hair—oh no, my hair.
I didn’t have shiny black hair like my friend. Mine was thick and unruly, and the thought of facing the popular kids looking like a mess was mortifying. I shuffled past them without speaking, praying they wouldn’t recognize me. But of course, they did.
In reflecting on that day, I don’t think anything physically happened, but the fear of what could have transpired haunted me. I was lucky that it didn’t escalate, but it left me with questions. What if I hadn’t gotten sick? What if I had lost consciousness completely? Those thoughts linger in my mind as a parent now.
I worry about my daughter, hoping she’ll listen to her instincts and recognize that true friends wouldn’t put her in harmful situations. I want her to know she doesn’t need anyone’s approval to be cool. I’ll teach my son about respect and accountability, ensuring he understands the importance of protecting others.
I lost touch with my friend over the years, and I don’t know what became of her brother, but I hope he remembers the impact of that day. It’s a reminder that sometimes, almost does count.