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We attended a small, private, hippie-leaning alternative elementary and middle school that was a universe unto itself, and formed unusually close bonds with our teachers.
We sat down together on a lopsided bench made from tree stumps, beside the sidewalk, under a silver lace climbing vine.
I told him what happened, skating around the worst parts by saying as little as possible. He quizzed me about how much I’d had to drink and offered platitudes about the dangers of alcohol.
If I were seventeen and raped today, I believe, and hope, that many aspects of the aftermath would’ve gone down differently.
In 2002, we didn’t talk about rape (especially not date rape) at home, in school, amongst friends.
Late on the night of September 28, 2002, a few hours before I turned seventeen, a guy friend of mine showed up at my front door with a bottle of Grey Goose vodka wrapped in a purple velvet sack.