Wall Flower

I was nearly halfway into the sixth grade, and Mr. Blake Anson had told me to stay in his class for lunch to go over a test with me. I recalled a conversation with my parents about this very subject, so I was therefore unsurprised when he asked me to stay. . . .

He refrained from looking at me for a long while. After he asked me to stay, he preceded to tell me I could start eating and turned his back on me. He began writing on the board: Names that were perhaps for the next lesson that would proceed once lunch was over. I cannot recall the names, though they were probably not that important.

I ate half of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich when he turned around. He had very intriguing eyes; all the possible eye colors were in both of his: Vines of blue sprouting from the pupil, surrounded by light hazel, and gold circling the iris. It is so hard for me to forget his eyes, for they have bore themselves into my mind. Forever engraved.

Without a word of my test escaping his lips, and without any papers in his hands, he sauntered over to his desk and sat down. He calmly said to me, “Sit down by me, Loraine,” and I listened. I could see strands of silver intertwined in his light brown hair when I came closer. He was about thirty then, and if not, a couple years older. He was not bad looking, really. Always had a dress shirt, slacks and tie - and on some days those ties reflected the holidays. Always wore his night black watch that he checked periodically whenever we . . . we would. . . .

He had me scoot closer to him, so close I could smell Old Spice cologne and chalk. Peanut butter did not mix well with those scents, mind you.

“Eat, Loraine, eat,” he insisted. “You’re so skinny, sweetie.” As I took more bites, he put his hand on my arm. Goosebumps invaded my skin like Nazis raiding a home of people of Jewish descent.

“Still, you are very pretty, sweetie,” said he. His hand slowly slid down to my side and he rolled his chair closer still.

Any knowledge of what to do escaped me, and therefore, I simply asked, “Are we going to talk about my test? Did I do badly?” Even then, I was a perfectionist.

He chuckled, hand still rested on my side. “No, no, Loraine,” he tittered softly. “You did well. You could never be bad, sweetie.”

“I did well?”

He ignored my question, but said, “Do you know what else you could do well for me?” and his hand slid slowly down my thigh. “Come sit on my lap, sweetie, com on.” When I hesitated, he warned, “I know your parents want you to get good grades, and I’ll give you bad grades if you don’t listen to me; I’ll give you a demerit and detention.”

Since my parents’ anger and disappointment were not ideal, I sat on his lap. His breathing got heavy as he whispered my name and touched me inappropriately. When I begged, “Please stop,” he would softly cover my mouth and threaten me with detentions and bad grades, all the while molesting me.

He checked his watch frequently, counting down until class had to start once again. Minutes went by too slowly when I was trapped with him. He would touch me too roughly as time went on, and his nails would dig into my skin when he . . . well, it’s implied that he would become aroused when I sat on his lap and he molested me, so when he was reaching the . . . peak of his arousal, his nails dug into my jaw line (he was covering my mouth) and he squeezed my thighs too hard. When lunch finally ended, and when he finally let me off his lap, he grabbed my chin and forced me to look at his face and into those colorful eyes that held so much sickness of the mind it frightened me even more than the actions he did.

“Sweetie,” he panted. His panting was rather disgusting, the way his breath hit my skin in hot puffs. “Don’t tell your parents, anybody, about this . . . okay? Your grades depend on it. You don’t want people to – to look down on you, huh, sweetie?”

And I, self-conscious, a perfectionist, and frankly scared shitless, agreed.

“Eat, Loraine,” he ordered, “and go sit at your desk. You need to eat more. So skinny.”

Naturally, I did not want to eat, for if he did not want me skinny I would be what he did not want. I hoped that would make him stop, but it never did. On that first day he molested me and after he told me to eat as class commenced, I wanted to vomit; however, I felt the need to obey his every command. As he taught my class mates and avoided my eyes, I finished my lunch, went numb to all feelings, and listened to what he taught. It was as if I were on autopilot, allowing my mind to take complete control while emotions and my heart took backseat to all this. I did not find error in allowing this at the time.

When I paused in my story, Joe just stared. He then asked, “Did he only do it that one time?”

“Negative,” I breathed.

“How many times?” Joe asked through clenched teeth.

Mr. Anson had me stay in class with him during lunch on random days every week: One week it would be only Tuesday; the next week, a Friday; and the next, a Wednesday; and et cetera. At times, he would not ask me to . . . entertain him for a couple weeks, and I thanked God. Then he would molest me twice, three times, four times in one week, and I would ask God why he hated me enough to let Mr. Anson do this.

He got more adventurous as the months went on. He would reach under my shirt and touch my chest or caress my face and hair with his free hand, and then he would try kissing my face to see how that felt with the rest of his actions. Other times, he made me touch him with his pants down. Or mine.

I have already questioned my strength and will-power to tell others that he did this. I understood how far his words and threats went, and that was not too far. Grades and such still mattered; however, when he asked, “You wouldn’t want people to think badly of you, huh, sweetie?” I froze. There was truth in that question, and that truth still resides, though weakened with age.

I concluded then that my parents would view me as disgusting; my sister would not want to embrace an impure, stained, dirty thing like me if I told her. If I assumed my family would see me as a disease, a spot on the family name, it made perfect sense for me to assume that those outside my family would look upon me with even more judgment in their eyes. Therefore, I proceeded to not tell anyone and keep the things Mr. Anson did to me locked away with my heart.

For six months, I grew to not only hate Mr. Anson, but myself, and I very much loathed God. I was taught in Sunday school that God loved everybody, and I hated that statement, for how could a loving God, as they claimed him to be, allow this to happen to me? Depression was my closest companion, closer to me than Joanne or Cassandra, and it would fuel my flames of hatred for me, Mr. Anson, and God; it was becoming the essence of who I was with every passing month.

The day it ended is a memory I will never forget, for I had never felt so much relief in my existence.

It was pretty much a normal day for Mr. Anson and me: he was trying to make me eat more. (I had been eating less and less, and that was due to his consistent nagging about me being too skinny and not eating enough.) He also touched me inappropriately while doing so, and I never understood why he wanted me to eat when he would try to kiss me the next moment. After I took a bite, he told me to put down my sandwich and then progressed to put my hand where he wanted it. I did not fight; instead, I stared up at the date, written in his handwriting: It was May 31, the last day of the month, and school was almost ending. I remember being obsessed with the thought of school ending; it occupied my mind nearly every second of the day. The end of the school year meant a few months free of Mr. Anson’s torment, and I had frequent fantasies of not having to deal with him . . . neighboring my other fantasies of choking him to death or seeing him run over by an eighteen wheeler, with me right beside him.

The principle walked in just as Mr. Anson made me sit on his lap and began molesting me all over, hands up my shirt and pants unbuttoned. I wanted to cry for two reasons: I had been caught in the act of my impurities, but more so because I was finally able to see fear in Mr. Anson’s eyes. Mrs. Camilla Dutch, the principle, called the other teachers for help, held me far away from Mr. Anson, and called the police. Mr. Anson had attempted to flee but the other male teachers held him in the class.

After Mrs. Dutch called 911, she called my sister to her office, where I drank Chai tea. It was a new, delightful taste to me, and I did not know if it tasted so good because I was free of Mr. Anson or because the taste truly delighted me.

As Joanne helped herself to Mrs. Dutch’s candy, the principle called my parents, and when they arrived she told them how she found me. I told my story when the police had arrested Mr. Anson and asked to hear it.

I was not the only one who cried; my mom and sister cried because of what had been happening to me and my dad cried because he wanted so badly to kill Mr. Anson for doing those things to me. The police had to hold him back as hot tears poured from his violent eyes. I cried because I let them see how soiled I was but also because they still loved me and still held me.

The trial is something I suppressed. It was simply a lot of retelling my story and having to be in the same room as Mr. Anson. He received about eight to ten years in prison. I do not recall if he was offered parole. I do remember the pure joy I felt swelling my heart when I watched as he was taken out of the courtroom in handcuffs.

He did not look at me when he left the courtroom with his hands cuffed behind his back, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, and his hair a mess. When he left, it was the only time I looked at him since our last time together. I wanted to see if there was any remorse or regret or cockiness or hate in those beautiful eyes of his, but I never got that chance. I suppose that was best.

I eventually learned to love God once more as I slowly began to love myself; I began opening up to people and, through discipleship and a strong Christian support system of family and friends, I realized that none of it was my fault, nor did God hate me. This happened so I may persevere and grow to trust God. God is a loving God; I understand this now. God may allow bad things to happen, but it’s always for the greater good. It is like a father taking his daughter to get a shot: he cannot promise that it will be without pain, or that she will not cry during the shot, or that she will look at him with eyes filled with betrayal; however, he can promise that when it is over she will not get the flu and feel worse.

I learned that I had strength all along. I needed God to help me become aware of it and experience happiness again through him. I have yet to discover how I can reach out to those who have suffered what I have, though I can say with confidence that God will always be present in my decisions and my conversations with those who have suffered my pain, and I trust him with my life, my heart, and my struggles. It took years, but . . .

“I found myself, something I lost to Mr. Anson, in God,” I concluded, and I paused a moment before I continued: “Joe, if you are wondering, I did have an eating disorder with which I still find myself struggling. As expected, because Mr. Anson insisted I eat, I did not want to; it was the only thing I could control at the time. It’s still subconsciously controlling my appetite and how I view food, as you have witnessed and figured out without knowing the background.

”I don’t often see myself as pretty because Mr. Anson told me I was, and because I still feel enmity towards the man, I reject the idea. I rejected a lot of things before: happiness, love, and trust. I do not reject those anymore.”

Joe was speechless, and immediately panic set in. Past worry weeded its way into my mind and I feared he would never look at me the same way again. Then, exceeding expectations, his eyes began to water and he pulled me into a hug.

“It literally hurts me,” he revealed, “to hear how much pain you were in; it makes me seriously sad that you had to go through that.” He pulled away and looked at me. My face was covered in tears, overwhelmed by relief and love.

“I still love you, best friend,” he laughed, and he wiped his eyes. “Even if that does sound lame when I say it. But it’s true. You’re my best friend, Loraine.”

“I love you too, Joe,” laughed I in reply. “And, for a lack of better words, ditto.”

He hugged me once more, and sighed, “Well, I guess it’s my turn.”

“You may share only if you wish; my sharing does not have to elicit an exchange from you.”

“I want to,” he echoed from our earlier conversation.

Birds chirped and kids laughed somewhere in the distance. Ever since my childhood experience, I always wondered if any stranger children have suffered what I have, and by whom: a teacher, like me; a father or a mother; a grandparent; uncle, perhaps; next door neighbor; a T-ball couch, perchance. Some children are easy enough to figure out; they express their feelings well because they’re children. Honesty is natural, and they will tell you a straight out answer whether you ask for it or not. But I wonder if any children are like me when I was their age: Were they quiet, unwilling to tell others about their sufferings, or bound by their torturer from saying anything because he threatens them with things only a child would care so much about, but to an adult would mean nothing?

Joe coughed, and I turned my attention back to him. Only seconds had passed from when I heard the children and birds twittering, and Joe suddenly looked wary. He sighed, and it sounded so old; if maturity were a tangible thing, it would have come out like vapor in his sigh. I joke that he is immature at times, but I can no longer joke after seeing the sudden aging of his features, the rigidness in his shoulders.

He did not meet my gaze when he began: “I had just turned fourteen, and school was just about to start, when I met the real Diana Price and her boyfriend Lance Philips. . . .”