“I didn’t notice this until much, much later, but within a month or so of beginning lessons with him, he never scheduled anyone right before or after me. I’d walk in and he’d be ready for our lesson. Our time would be over, and Mom might be running late, and we’d play a song together or just talk. He was easy to talk to, Mr. Henley.” I heard her swallow. “Six months went by. I was getting really, really good. I could play some pretty advanced classical pieces on the guitar, and some modern stuff. My voice was getting stronger, and my technique and breathing and all that, my throat voice instead of my head voice. And…and one day, I had to pee during our lesson. That was a big no-no. Students weren’t allowed any distractions. I held it as long as I could, but I had to go. So he let me—and the only bathrooms were upstairs. He told me the best bathroom to use was in his bedroom. I just had to pee, so I didn’t think about it. When I came out, he was in the bedroom and the door was closed.”
My heart clenched. “Fuck.”
Her voice was tiny and soft—like the girl she’d been. “I wasn’t sure what was going on or what he was doing. But he was there, and in front of the door, and said maybe the lesson could wait. He had something else he wanted to show me. He said—he said I was a special student, and…and there were things we could do that would help him teach me even better. I was wearing a little skirt, knee-length, denim. A T-shirt. Nothing special, nothing revealing. I’d never even held a boy’s hand. He…he put his hand under my skirt and touched me over my underwear. I didn’t know what to do. I was too scared and confused to speak, and he was so close all I could smell was his cologne and his wool sweater. He touched me, and I said nothing, did nothing. And…and then he put his finger inside me. And I could feel something happening to him. To his pants. Didn’t know what it meant. I just knew he was touching me and it felt wrong, but I just…I had no voice. No words.” I dared not even breathe. “He told me I was his favorite student. And that we had a special relationship. Special to us. Only for us. No one needed to know, not even my parents.”
A long, long silence. A sniffle.
“Mom picked me up, and I pretended I was fine. I didn’t know how to tell her. And he’d told me not to. He’d told me before that he could make me famous, and he could make me like Taylor. He knew people. He said to just do what he told me and he could help me. And I just…I wanted to be a famous musician. So I didn’t tell Mom, and certainly not Dad or my sisters. Plus, I had promised them that having music lessons was not just a phase, that I was serious, and I knew Dad especially would be mad.
“Charlie was busy being the golden oldest child getting straight A’s in everything, and Cassie studied dance at this prestigious dance academy which was the same day and time as my music lesson in New York. So when I got in the car, Cassie was there too, and talking a mile a minute about plie this and arabesque that and she was going to be lead next year and she had a solo and blah blah blah. How could I tell Mom what had happened? I couldn’t. And my younger sisters were just little kids, and if Mom wasn’t driving us to lessons she was taking them to soccer or book club or Poppy’s art tutor. She was always busy. I wanted to tell her. I was scared and it had felt wrong and it made me feel gross, but there was just never a moment to be alone with her.
“And then it was the next lesson. He acted like nothing had happened. And then we began our work for the day, but Mom was late. She was usually late picking me up because Cassie’s teachers were sticklers for students leaving on time, so Mom always picked her up first and I was always waiting.”
I desperately wanted to comfort her—she sounded so sad and so broken.
She just squeezed my hand as hard as she could, as if to reassure herself that I was here, beside her, and that she was here with me.
“So, after a few minutes he asked me if I’d told anyone about our speciallesson. I just shook my head, and he was like, good, because if anyone found out it would be very bad, and mostly for me. And he wanted to make me a famous musician, but if I told anyone, he wouldn’t be able to do that. And then he touched me again.” She faltered. “Then he said it would be better to have our special lesson upstairs. I knew he was going to do something I wouldn’t like, but I—I went along anyway. I don’t know why. I was so scared—I hadn’t told Mom what had happened last week and now it was happening again. Mom would never believe me now. Why didn’t I say something, right? I know it doesn’t make any sense explaining it now, but back then, it felt like I had no choice. He made me take off my skirt. And my underwear. And he touched me again.”
Another heavy silence.
A sniffle.
“My shirt. Everything. He locked the bedroom door. I remember my heart was pounding so hard it hurt, and my throat was…just closed. Hot, tight. I couldn’t have made a sound if I had tried. I was naked, and no one had seen me naked since I was a little girl, and that was my parents. I was shy, back then and I didn’t like even changing for gym class, and now there I was, naked in front of this grown man who had touched my privates. He…said we were going to have another special lesson, and I had to stay very quiet and do exactly what he told me. He made me lie down on his bed, and…pose for him. He took pictures with a—one of those cameras that print the picture…what are they called?”
“Polaroids.”
“Yeah, a Polaroid. He showed it to me, and said I was so beautiful.” Her voice was…wet, and thick. Hesitant. “He stood next to the bed and took off all his clothes. I’d never even seen Dad all the way naked, so that in itself was a shock, but then he grabbed my hand and put it on his dick. It was already hard, but when he made me touch it, it got even harder. So big, so…ugh. Horrible. Thick, hairy. Wrinkly. He wasn’t young. But clearly still…vigorous.” A shudder, a gagging sound. “So, uh. Yeah. He climbed up on the bed, and knelt over top of me, said this was going to hurt a little, and then he put it in me. I could tell even then he was trying to be gentle but he was too excited. Gentle didn’t last long.” A broken whisper now. “It hurt. So much. And then he started…the only way to put it is he fucked me. I couldn’t make a sound—I didn’t know what was happening and it hurt and I was terrified and it was just…so fuckingwrong. But I couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t even speak. I never said no. I let it happen. That’s how I felt, then, and for years later. Deep down, I still believe Ilet it happen. I should have said something or done something. If I’d said no, please stop, please don’t…would he have…would he have not raped me? I didn’t say anything, but that’s what it was…rape.”
A long, dark, ugly, vicious silence.
“I wish that was the whole story. Touched a couple times, fucked once, and then I got the courage to stop it.” A bitter, hateful laugh. “Nope. Not by a long shot. He…it took him a long time. He was breathing heavily and…and I realize now that he could get it up but had trouble keeping it up. So he…he stopped. Knelt over me. Made me—” She broke for a moment, unable to continue. “He forced my jaw open with his fingers and put it in my mouth. Came in my mouth. I remember that moment more clearly and vividly than any other—that first time. It tasted sour and so bitter. There was so much I couldn’t swallow it all, and I couldn’t breathe. And he wouldn’t stop. He just kept whispering,yeah baby, you like that don’t you. Take it, baby. Take it all, sweetheart.” A pause. “Thus my aversion to pet names, baby and sweetheart specifically. Those were his words for me. From then on, I was never Lexie to him, I was sweetheart. And when he was fucking me, it was baby.”
She was curled up on the chair in a tiny ball; she’d yanked her hand away and had her arms wrapped around her shins, rocking. Whispering. I had to strain to hear.
“The abuse didn’t stop. And I couldn’t tell. He told me if I told anyone, I would get arrested and go to jail. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but it was scary enough of an idea that it worked. He told me it was our secret and if I told anyone, our special relationship would be over and he couldn’t help me be famous anymore, and no one would believe me anyway. All true, I now realize. Just the truth, only twisted so it seemed like a threat.” A ragged whimper of a sob. “Every week. For years.
“I withdrew, socially and emotionally. I was already shy, and that only made that worse. I never left my room. I stayed in my room every moment I could, playing, practicing. I was so good, back then. I really was. He was an amazing teacher, truly. He could get the best out of you, he could make you play and sing with a passion you didn’t even know you had. I think I thought if I was good enough, I’d get discovered somehow and whisked away, and the abuse would stop, and I’d never see him again. But it never did. He’d fuck me, until he was ready to finish and then he’d come in my mouth. Thus my aversion to that. But he never used a condom. Never. Probably part of why he did things that way. Obviously, knocking up his teenage student would put a damper on things, so he was very, very careful. He never even got close to coming inside me.”
Pause. A choked sound.
“Except once. The last time. I was seventeen. I was getting too old for him, I now realize. His sweet spot was thirteen to sixteen. Most of his female students were in that range, and I always wondered how many he did this to.” A breath, a sob. “So, I was seventeen, musically talented. I was applying to colleges, but figuring I’d leave for Nashville the day I graduated.
“Anyway, he’d been sick the week before, so we’d skipped the lesson. For four years it was the only reprieve I’d had except holidays. When I arrived, he didn’t even pretend we would have an actual music lesson. He locked the front door, pushed me into the sitting room, and just…went after me. Pushed me over the couch, yanked off my underwear, ripped them, and hurt me in the process. And just…” a ragged, horrible sound. “Justrailedme. Bare. As always. Right there in the sitting room, those lacy curtains barely obscuring anything. He was just…an animal. And this time, he didn’t stop. He came inside me, and it was the worst thing I’ve ever felt in my life. He was…he was on top of me, and he said…I remember the smell of his breath and the way his voice sounded when he said‘yeah, baby, you’ve always been my favorite, Sexy Lexie,’and that was when he came, calling me Sexy Lexie. Somehow, it was worse than all the other times combined. Why, I don’t know. I think maybe because I knew by then how pregnancy worked, and that I’d probably get pregnant. Being seventeen, Mom had had the talk with us girls, and boy was it detailed. We talked about our cycles, and if we were going to have sex it should be protected, but that we should also understand our fertility cycles. Typical Mom overachieving situation. But thanks to that, I knew I was at my peak fertility. And he’d come inside me. Without a condom. And that I was going to get pregnant.”
She sobbed, and I reached out, wanting to comfort her, but she waved me away.
“Just listen. I’m…I’m okay. It’s just a terrible memory. Just listen.” So I sat on the floor next to her, dying to comfort her, touch her, hold her, be angry for her. “He finished and told me to go to the bathroom and clean up. I did, and when I came back, he had a Plan B pill. I realized then he’d been planning this, and he was ready. He told me to take it. Watched me take it. And that was when I just…lost it. I slapped him. Hard. I was shaking so bad, I could barely function, and it was a rage unlike anything I’d ever felt, before or since. Just…hate. I hit him and hit him, and he tried to stop me but I was just…insane. And that was when he hit me back. Just full on punched me across the jaw. Knocked me clean out. When I woke up, he wasn’t anywhere to be found, and my jaw hurt so bad, and, I still…I still had his cum leaking out of me. So I went home—I was driving myself by then. I made up some excuse about a fight at school or something—not sure Mom believed me, but she didn’t push it.”
She reached out, took my hand, squeezed.
“I never went back. I stayed at school and lied about going. My parents had been mailing him the payment for years, and I guess he kept cashing them even though I wasn’t going. He wasn’t about to raise any flags, obviously. I was about to graduate and I’d been making plans—I’d been accepted to a bunch of colleges and universities, but my plan was to move to Nashville and work and get a job as a honky-tonk gig player and write songs and all that. I’d been talking about it nonstop, because I was just so excited to getaway. I figured once I could getawayI could start over. Be someone else. Be a Lexie that hadn’t been raped every week for four years, and never told a soul. I could become someone else, somewhere else. And that was when Dad came up to my room while I was playing and told me I’d never make it, that I just wasn’t good enough.” Quick, sharp pause. “If he hadn’t died, I don’t think I’d ever have forgiven him for that. I still haven’t, really, but his dying changed things.”
“Goddamn,” I breathed.
“Yeah.” She huffed, a laugh that was sad and angry and bitter. “Raped by my music teacher, and my own dad killed my dream. That day, then and there, I gave up on music. Went to U-Conn. Gradually, I started reinventing myself. I was painfully shy, modest, introverted, hated myself and didn’t trust anyone. Halfway through freshman year, I just…I was sick of being that Lexie The Victim. I said fuck this, and decided to be the exact opposite. Threw away all my clothes, and went to thrift stores and bought all new clothes—short skirts, revealing tops, see-through stuff, booty shorts. Cut off old jeans and khakis, I stopped wearing a bra. Started just saying whatever went through my head. Started just being a bitch to people I didn’t like, or to anyone who pissed me off. It feltgood. Like I was reclaiming myself. I was no longer a victim. I did what I wanted. Started drinking. Going to parties. It was at a party that I had voluntary sex for the first time. In a bathroom of a frat house, super drunk. But it was good. It felt good to do that voluntarily. I did it again at the next party. Then sober, and that was even better. Because every time I had sex, I was trying consciously to erase the memory of John David Henley. I couldn’t drink him away; I found that out real fast. But sex? Sex did the trick. The more I hooked up, the more I could replace memories of Henley with other guys. Guys I’dchosento fuck.” She sighed slow, deep. “It became the new me. Bold, aggressive. Exhibitionist. I’d dance on tables, flash the whole party. The wild college girl stereotype. I’d do keg stands in miniskirts with no underwear on. I had no standards—as long as I was remotely physically attracted to the dude, I’d fuck him. My only rules were condom, every time, and I’d never blow a guy to completion. I gave plenty of BJs, but I’d never let them finish in my mouth…for obvious reasons. It became sort of my calling card, I think. I had a reputation, and guys knew things about me. I was the crazy slut who’d fuck anyone and give amazing BJs, but you couldn’t come in her mouth.”
That made me feel…uncomfortable. I’d always prided myself on not being jealous or possessive. But somehow, this was different. I said nothing, however.
