Before
Every 107 seconds, another American is sexually assaulted. I just never thought that could be me.
It was July, a really rainy July, but July at that. My hair was as short as a newspaper boy's, and if I had not caked myself in eyeliner, you probably would have thought I was a guy. Perhaps a very feminine guy, though.
"Naya, get up! Camp starts today." My mom burst into my room, 7 in the morning, on a summer morning not to mention. I rolled my eyes and flipped around in bed. "You signed up for summer camp, not me. Wake up AJ when you're dressed."
She was right. You should never admit it to a mother, but ten times out of ten, moms are right about anything and everything. I had been the one to sign myself up for summer camp, even though my little brother had too, and even though I had remotely no close friends. The camp was local - for townies only. But this was the summer I was going to become normal, and have friends, and maybe a boyfriend. That was a lot for thirteen years old me to want, but normality was not.
"I've been up!" I said, stretching my arm. "And I need my bikini."
This was a big deal, because today at camp, we were going to a lake with a lot of guys from school. So I did what any reasonable teenager would do, and tried my best to put on makeup although I had no idea. Plus, I was going swimming, and it would wash off. I was boy crazy at its finest.
"Which one do you want to wear, Nay?" my mom called, standing on the bottom of the stairs.
"I don't care!" I called back. I brushed my hair a few times, not that there was much to do with a pixie cut and hair gel.
What is important is that I was excited for a day of swimming and possibly connecting with old friends.
After
"Hello?" Somebody picked up.
I almost threw my phone across the room, I was so nervous. It was a number I found online.
"Hello, Sexual Abuse Hotline here. This is Angelina speaking." A woman's voice talked softly into the receiver.
I still could not answer. Once I answered her, that was it. I was going to report a sexual abuse, and everyone would know. I was a whore.
"If you're there, you can talk to me." The girl said, gently.
I took a deep breath and pushed my wavy hair out of my face. My high school ID card was in my pocket and cut my finger as I jammed my hands in it.
"Shit," I whispered.
"I'm Angelina. You can talk to me." The girl tried again.
I stood up on my bed, the place where I had cried many times before because I was a whore. It was my fault. This was all my fault. I made myself a whore. Isn't that what everyone thought anyway? That's the thing about high school and teenagers. They think what they think, and once they form an opinion, you will never change their mind.
"My name is Naya, I'm a Freshman at Granger Catholic Prep and I think I was sexually abused two years ago."
There was silence on the other end. You might think that a person who worked at a Sexual Abuse crisis center might get used to hearing that people were raped or molested, but it still shocks some people. And Angelina, she was shocked.
"You were in seventh grade when that happened? You were twelve?" She asked, as I heard her pen click.
My phone vibrated in my hands as I checked three new texts. One from my best friend, Shay, one from my boyfriend, Logan, checking on me, and one from my mother, asking what I wanted for dinner.
"Thirteen," I corrected her, as tears formed in my eyes. "I want the boy who did it charged. I want him to rot in Hell, and I want you to help me."
"Okay, Naya, I need you to start from the beginning. What happened?"
As I told her, my room became quieter and darker.