Paris: The Memoir(14)

Mr. Abercrombie called me almost every night, and we talked for hours about how amazingly mature, beautiful, and intelligent I was, how sensual, misunderstood, and special. He reminded me that Princess Diana was thirteen years younger than Prince Charles. And Priscilla Presley was my age when Elvis fell in love with her. I deserved a rock star. I deserved a prince. Because I was a princess. I deserved to be cherished and loved in a way eighth-grade boys know nothing about.

Mr. Abercrombie made me believe that I was rare and precious, and you know what? I was. Every eighth-grade girl is rare and precious. Every eighth-grade girl is a treasure, like a priceless work of art, so you’d like to think that every eighth-grade teacher will be like a security guard in an art gallery. He’s not there to enjoy the beauty; he’s there to protect it. He’s there to enforce the rules, and Rule Number One is: DO. NOT. TOUCH. Keep your fingers, lips, and man bits off the masterpieces. It should be obvious that the Girl with a Pearl Earring deserves a chance to smile her wistful smile without some creepy guy feeling her up. Because damage to that precious work of art can be hidden, but it can never be undone.

My teacher asked me almost every night, “Are your parents home?”

One night when they were out, I said, “No, it’s just the nanny.”

“Come outside,” he said. “I’m waiting for you.”

I threw on sneakers, climbed out my bedroom window, and slid down the drainpipe. Night air filled my lungs, along with the smell of mown grass and gardenias. I saw a late-model SUV idling at the top of the driveway. I climbed into the passenger seat. Teacher pulled me into his arms and kissed me.

The intensity of it stunned and delighted me. My brain lit up, flush with adrenaline, curiosity, and a host of feelings I couldn’t even name. This terrifying blissful kissing went on for what seemed like a long time and seemed to be evolving into something more. I don’t know where he would have taken it if my parents hadn’t pulled into the driveway.

Headlights spilled across the windshield, and the spell was broken.

I glimpsed my dad’s stunned face. Teacher jammed his key in the ignition and peeled out. I clutched the edge of the seat as we fishtailed down the driveway. He sped like a maniac through the posh streets of Bel Air and Westwood, reeling around corners, freaking out the whole time.

I giggled. Nervous. Heart pounding. Ears ringing. Oh, my god! I wasn’t wearing a seat belt! This was like Bonnie and Clyde!

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Mr. Abercrombie sounded like he was crying. “My life is over. What am I doing? Why did you make me do this?”

Eventually, he circled back and dropped me off in front of my house. He didn’t even kiss me good night like I imagined somebody would if you were on a date. It didn’t happen like a rom-com; he just dumped me out of the car and sped away. I sprinted across the yard, scrambled up the drainpipe, climbed in the bedroom window, and dove under the covers. My parents burst into my room, beyond furious, both of them screaming at me. There were too many words to sort out. A solid wall of outrage.

I blinked my big eyes and said in a dreamy baby voice, “What? What are you talking about? I’ve been sleeping.”

I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sure they didn’t believe me for a second, but whatever—I just wanted them to go, and obviously, they just wanted to be gone, so they went out of my room, and no one ever mentioned the awkward incident again.

The school year was almost over, but that last month or so was fraught with drama at school and home. I never told a soul, but somehow, people seemed to know. Maybe I imagined it, but things felt different. He was still Mr. Abercrombie, but I was no longer the Finest Girl. I was the Shannen Doherty of the Catholic school. Everyone loved to hate me. Nothing I did was right. I didn’t know how to feel or what to do, and I was trying to process it all in the lonely, confusing space of secrecy.

During the school dance after the graduation ceremony, I went over to McDonald’s, and when I came back, the chaperones wouldn’t let me in.

The nuns were like, “You’re done, bitch. GTFO.”

I mean, they probably didn’t use those exact words, but they were clear. I had to call my mom to come and get me, knowing she’d be livid and embarrassed.

That was the end of my happy life in Barbie’s Bel Air Dream House.

Mom and Dad sent me to live at my grandmother’s house in Palm Springs—just for the summer, I thought, but it turned out to be for much longer.

I don’t know if there were any repercussions to the teacher or if there was any attempt to prevent him from choosing another little girl. My parents never volunteered any information, and I never asked, but I assume the fear of bad publicity would have prevented them from making a scene or pressing charges. I understand how they could have reasoned that this was in my best interest.

For twenty-five years, I framed this episode in my mind as “my first kiss,” because, even though it wasn’t my first kiss, it made all the kisses that came before it seem like the kisses I gave my ferrets. I never allowed myself to talk or even think about what it really was or why I climbed out the window to kiss that stupid pedophile. It took decades for me to actually speak the word pedophile.

Casting him in the role of child molester meant casting myself in the role of victim, and I just couldn’t go there. I couldn’t accept that all his praises—all those affirmations an eighth-grade girl desperately needs to hear—came from a place of malevolence, and I was stupid and vain enough to buy it. It was like dreaming about a lover’s gentle touch but then waking up to realize it was actually a roach crawling on you. I couldn’t reconcile the fact that I had enjoyed something that was, in reality, utterly vile. I feel physically ill now, seeing it in that perspective.