Prisoner at Large

My parents had just moved us into a townhouse in a small southern Maryland town, arriving just before the start of my freshman year. Although I had lots of friends back in Oklahoma, the move was a relief to me as it finally got me away from my abuser. 

Maryland was a wonderful fresh start, but I was still shaken to the core from my experiences. I had not a scrap of self-esteem, my confidence registered in the negative numbers and I was constantly in terror that someone could look at me and somehow see what had happened. I saw it all as my fault. I felt guilty, anguished, warped. 

But something odd was happening. It was on the daily walk to school that I first noticed that something was up. During my route to LaPlata High, a few school buses would pass by. After a week or so, I noticed a blonde girl waiving at me from the back seat. I was confused, unsure of whether she waived to be friendly or to be derisive. My attacker left me incapable of seeing myself as attractive or desirable to any girl, much less a beautiful one. Thin-skinned and easily humiliated, my radar was always up and alert for any slight or insult. In my mind, as she waved, she was yelling out to her bus mates, “Hey everybody, look at that stupid freshman that thinks I’m into him!” 

But it didn’t turn out that way. After a few days of her persistent acknowledgement, I waved back weakly. Instead of the sardonic laugh I expected, she smiled at me and I knew then that she was sincere. I didn’t have her in any classes and I seldom saw her in the halls, but when I did, we only smiled at each other. I knew nothing about her, except was that she was blonde and cute and the sight of her made my whole day.

One morning as I headed for school anticipating the moment when her bus would pass, a voice broke my concentration. 

“Hey, you want a ride?”

I looked over to see a girl about my age standing at the open passenger door of a purple van parked in the driveway of the house I was passing. She smiled sweetly. Her mother approached from the house and yelled, “Come on, get in!” 

I looked back down the street but no bus approached. As much as I wanted my daily brief encounter, I realized that it was foolish to pass up this ride just to get a quick look at a smiling blonde whose name I didn’t even know. Especially given that Van Girl looked like Susan Dey, if Laurie Partridge had worn cute little gold-rimmed glasses. With mixed emotions, I climbed in and sat on the bed in the back. It was one of those vans.

After that, I would walk to Debra’s house each morning and sit next to her on the couch while we waited for her mother to get ready. Seated less than a foot away from her, I stared unflinchingly at Bugs Bunny cartoons while, from the corner of my eye, I could see Debra frequently glancing at me.  I was unable to return her looks. My neck seemed to be paralyzed and soon ached from tension and lack of movement. It was all very strange. I just couldn’t accept that she was interested in me.

But the strange events didn’t stop there. I had lunch one day in the school cafeteria and acfrom from was seated a friend of a friend:  a thin girl with wild, curly, dark hair and a great smile. Thereafter, whenever our paths crossed in the hallways, she would reach out and lightly touch my arm as we passed. This greeting eventually evolved into a sort of erotic handshake. As we spotted each other in the corridor, we extended our hands to each other and softly clasped them. Drawing even to each other, we locked eyes and whispered a quiet hello. As we moved apart, we trailed our arms behind us, continuing our tenuous, sensual touch as long as we could. Slowly but inevitably, our fingers slipped from each others’ grasp.

I didn’t know anything about her except her name: Tina. Even though we'd shared these small intimacies, I couldn’t muster the courage to speak to her to find out more.

(to be continued)

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