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Excerpts

Well.

This is harder than I thought it would be.

I wish we could have come over and hung out with you before all this, even once, for like a picnic or something. We would have really liked that. I'm not saying it to make you feel bad, I swear. I'm just saying.

You have a nice yard. It looks lived-in. This is a good patio, too. I like how the bricks are so worn down, like they've been here a really long time.

I know. I have to start, I do, but...

Maybe I should sit next to you instead of across from you. It'll probably be easier if we don't have to look at each other. I mean, I can look at you, but you shouldn't be turning your head in that neck brace, anyway.

Wait, let me pull this other lounge chair into the shade.

Ouch. There. That's better. I hope your wife won't mind me messing up the seating.

No, I know. She seems really nice. I just said it because...I don't know.

You don't have an ashtray anywhere, do you?

Yeah, no kidding, but at this point do you really think it matters? I mean, I'm kind of past getting grounded for smoking.

Okay, I'll use it, but don't blame me if the ashes kill your begonias.

You know, all things considered, you're still pretty good-looking for an old guy.

I'm glad that made you smile. And I'm glad you remember that night. Ardith and I remember everything about every single time we saw you.

It's not baloney. It's the truth. And I'm not crying. I don't do that.

The events leading up to this? Sure, I'll tell you what happened -- that's why I'm here -- but you're not going to like it, which definitely makes this the hardest thing I'll ever do.

Because when I'm done you're never going to want to see us again.

Ever.

I'm not assuming anything. I know.

But me and Ardith talked about it on the way here, and we decided that no matter what happens after this, we still want you to know everything. If anybody's entitled to the whole truth, it's you.

Can I have a sip of your ice water, please? Thanks.

In my own words? Okay, then, just remember that you asked for it.

By the time you hit fifteen, there are certain survival lessons you'd better have learned.

Like, that breasts are power. Sad to say, but it all comes down to a matter of supply and demand. Girls have them, guys want them. Even a skank is a hot commodity if she can offer up anything more than a couple of mosquito bites. Not saying she should offer them up, just saying she should recognize her advantage and not put out every time some guy manages to string together a couple of compliments.

Too bad that's all it takes sometimes.

Being user-friendly doesn't mean you're going to be loved. Getting attention is not the same thing. Sometimes it's the exact opposite.

And while we're talking about being used and abused, you should know that there are some things you tell and some things you handle by yourself, the best you can. You can't always rat and still hope to be saved when somebody does you wrong. The backlash will dog you till you die.

Or till you wish you were dead.

See, guys freak out. They hit critical mass and blast nuclear, white-hot anger out over the world like walking flamethrowers.

But girls freak in. They absorb the pain and bitterness and keep right on sponging it up until they drown.

Maybe that's why nobody's real worried about girls going off and wreaking havoc. It's not that the seething hatred and need for revenge isn't there, hell no. It's just that instead of erupting and annihilating our tormentors, we destroy ourselves instead.

Usually.

You root for us in the movies, you know. You want the victims to rise up, sick of being bullied and strike back, winning one for all the little guys who aren't powerful, beautiful, popular, or rich. But when our anger becomes reality, it's a different story.

No, I'm not threatening anyone. It's a little late for that. I'm only pointing out that real life isn't like the movies. The victim doesn't usually win. She just endures.

Prime example: third week of high school there was a sophomore who thought the senior guys she'd started hanging out with were kidding when they herded her into the boys' room so she could supposedly go down on the only one of them who'd never gotten a blow job.

Well, they weren't joking. Word swept the grapevine that she'd done it surrounded by an audience, but she never told the teachers or got any of the guys in trouble.

Why? Because shame shut her up. You could see it in her face, and her walk.

She was known as "that girl who blew the guy in the boys' bathroom" for a few days, but then her screwup was buried under the rubble of the next school scandal and they practically forgot her existence.

So sometimes what takes you down can be used to raise you up again.

But if she'd told instead of handling it privately, it never would have died. Teachers get involved, then parents, cops, and lawyers. The guys' side would stand up and yell, "Well, what did she expect? Why did she go with them? Boys will be boys!"

And then her side would insist the boys scared or forced her, and ask why the parents didn't raise their sons better than that, and on, and on.

So no one but her friends really understood why she went with them in the first place.

Because she was a sophomore, fresh out of junior high -- you know our junior high goes up to ninth grade, right? -- and totally bedazzled by the attention. Anyone could see it. These guys walked her to class, bought her lunch, flirted and paid homage to her fine new body. She wanted them to like her so she went along with the joke, not realizing it wasn't a joke until someone was pushing her to her knees, and someone else was guarding the door, and someone else had unzipped his jeans.

She could have hollered for help but if no one came before they shut her up they might have done worse, maybe even hurt her so she wouldn't name them. And besides, if a teacher did hear, that would have gotten them all, including her, in deep trouble. Detention. Suspension and notes home. Counselor visits. And how would she explain that on her college application, or to her parents? How would she explain that playing queen to their court jesters had somehow gotten twisted into being led to the bathroom at the deserted end of the hall? How would she explain the stony chill of the tile under her knees when the laughing stopped, and the air grew thick with anticipation?

Stupid, but up until that minute she'd probably believed what they'd told her, that being called a "tease" was worse than actually being a slut, and that nobody liked teases because they never followed through.

I bet she didn't know she could take herself back, that just because a horny group of players called her a tease it didn't mean she was obligated to change their opinion. They were seniors. She was a straight-A, marching band sophomore. You tell me.

What do you mean, how do I know all this? I'm a girl, remember? And no, it wasn't me, but how many of us do you really think make it through without scars?

So by the time you're fifteen you should know all of that, and this, too.

Never bow before your tormentors. Not even if they've locked on to the most humiliating moment in your life. If you don't break, then they have nothing and it's lousy sport and they'll turn their attention to some other poor slob who's wearing a bunchedup maxipad and bleeding through her khakis.

Never let them know you're vulnerable, especially when you are.

Never trust someone else to protect you, and never forget that every choice you make is on you. Ignorance of the outcome doesn't exempt you from the consequences.

This is what you should know by sophomore year, if you want to survive. Too bad we learned the hard way and didn't pass it on in time.

The video camera's running so, for the record, I'm Blair Brost.

I'm fifteen.

You'll want to talk to Ardith now.