Shorter Stories from The Avocado Grove - Part V Why My Boyfriend Does Wheelies on His Motorbike at Midnight

I hallucinated the smell of pines mixed with Dillon's woodsy smell.  It happened every practice, every game, those silly practice serves he showed me the day we met and I was stuck again in a fog of his aftershave and green, green everywhere.  I quit the volleyball team and struggled in all of my classes.  This went on for weeks.

Came right to you.  Where were you? 

Where are you, Juniper Johnson?  Still at the party? Do you know the answer?   

Why didn't you help me out? - I asked the angels the same question.   They didn't answer, I texted Cliff.  Last exam.  Coming home.

I left the dorm for winter break, there was nothing but a field of snow.  I recognized no one and trudged on soothed by the soft crunching sound.  When I stopped and gazed at the imprint of my shoes, I saw Sherry walked alone.

"Can I talk to you about Dillon?"  (The way she said it, I knew what she asked - and I tried to ignore the echo of "Dillon would never.")  I thought about Cliff, thought about going home.  And I tried to forget the things that happened here - Dillon, quitting the team (after Dillon) and barely passing my classes (after Dillon and after leaving volleyball).  What would I tell Cliff and my parents when they asked about what went wrong?

I imagined the conversations about the quitting and worked out versions (and I couldn't avoid the real reason), when you're home and in the same house your parents stare you down, the questions keep coming and the answers you don't have, no good ones anyway.

The conversations I had with 2-D, I wasn't sure about having with my parents and Cliff.

Rape happened to other girls.  And those girls lived in bigger cities on graffiti lined streets.  The girls did something to deserve it.  Skirt too short, pants too tight, or too much cleavage.  And none of those girls were tough - they didn't take care of themselves, they didn't play sports and they weren't smart.  They drank and they got high.  Rapists, all rapists fit a template too.  They were dirty like the city, they didn't offer you tips to make your game better and show you around your new school and offer you peanut butter cookies after.  They didn't ask you about you, about your neighborhood, they didn't make you feel all grown up.