HIGH SCHOOL SENTIMENTAL

Mark and I were at Angelo’s, the local Greek restaurant, with our friends Jake and Garrett. My first boyfriend was there too.

While we waited for our orders, Angelo brought us a pan of frosted dough shaped like a pizza. I grabbed a piece, and my boyfriend told me that I shouldn’t eat it.

It’s not healthy, he said.

Jake said, Ignore him, Jeannie.

Garrett and Mark echoed Jake.

My boyfriend huffed off, and Mark told me to stay.

As tempted as I am to remove my first boyfriend, he is relevant to this project. I never pursued Mark, partly because of my first boyfriend—but also because I didn’t want to jeopardize my friendship with Mark’s sister. That, and my crush on Mark disappeared after I realized just how stubbornly lazy he could be. Here was somebody who took his intelligence for granted.

Mark never pursued me, partly because of my first boyfriend—but also because he lacked confidence. I now remember Mark telling me this shortly after the assault. I suspect his lack of confidence was, though I hope it wasn’t, his explanation for the assault.

In my attic, I sort through old boxes marked High school sentimental and find photos of Mark and me. In several taken the same evening, we’re in my driveway and dressed for homecoming with Amber and my first boyfriend. (Amber told Mark, We are just going as friends. Understand?) Mark’s blue button-up shirt almost matches Amber’s blue, chin-length bob. She wears a shiny gray dress with black branches printed on it; it looks prettier and more subtle than it sounds. Mark’s right arm is around Amber, and Amber’s right arm disappears behind Mark. Meanwhile, my arms are crossed, my hands cupping my elbows, while my boyfriend’s right arm disappears behind me. I’m wearing a black strapless dress that reaches just past my knees. My long and wavy hair is pulled back with stray strands hanging down. I was going for that I didn’t try very hard look to offset the dress. My boyfriend’s right hand reappears on my hip. I look uncomfortable. In all three photos, I stand rigidly, arms crossed. That evening, before my boyfriend arrived, I told myself, This is the last dance you’re going to with him. But he’d attend most of my high school dances.

When I think of my first boyfriend, I mostly think of the road rage. The first time it happened, we were maybe six months into the relationship. I would have been fourteen. He would have been eighteen. I started dating him shortly after I transferred to public school.

We’ve been dating for half a year now, he said.

I stood in the corner of his bedroom with my purse.

My curfew, I said.

This time a curfew, he said. Usually it’s a headache.

I’m serious, I said.

He sat on his bed, underneath his tacky makeshift ceiling mirror of blank CDs.

Fine, I said. I’ll call my parents. They can pick me up.

He put on his shoes and grabbed his keys, and I followed him downstairs. His sister was at a friend’s house, his mother was on a date, and his father hadn’t been heard from in a few years.

I don’t understand you, he said, slamming his car door.

Inside the car, he complained about Catholicism, believing that was the reason I refused to sleep with him.

I just love you so much, he said, beginning to cry. I don’t think you love me.

As he turned from his street, he pressed on the gas pedal.

A busy intersection was two blocks ahead.

Please slow down, I said.

He ran a stop sign.

Please, I said.

The traffic light ahead turned yellow.

He pressed the pedal harder.

I love you, I lied. I love you. Now stop.

He slowed down, drove me home. He parked in the driveway with the ignition still running and walked me to the front door, where my dad was waiting.

My boyfriend told him: I’m sorry for being late, Mr. Vanasco. I had car trouble.

My dad patted my boyfriend’s shoulder. He said not to worry.

While they chatted, I went upstairs and distracted myself with a book. My mom appeared in my bedroom doorway.

Your father was walking the floor, she said. I told him not to worry, but then he got me worried.

Had I told her about my boyfriend’s temper, she would have told my dad, and my dad probably would have yelled at my boyfriend. My dad’s left vocal cord had been surgically removed because of throat cancer, making his voice scratchy and, when raised, frightening. Only once had he raised his voice to me. My mom and I had been arguing, and he interrupted: Respect your mother.

But my dad approved of my first boyfriend, and I didn’t want my dad to question his own judgment.

So I apologized to my mom and left it at that.

Later I called Mark’s sister. As soon as she said hello, I remember thinking: I wish Mark had answered.

I told her I didn’t know how to break up with my boyfriend, and she suggested I simply say I didn’t love him.

I hated the thought of hurting his feelings.

He’s going to college soon, I said. Maybe he’ll find someone there.

When I was in high school, I had a poster of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the full text, hanging next to my bed. One evening I reread the play’s opening while my first boyfriend tried to unhook my bra. By the time he figured out the clasp, Lysander was telling Hermia: The course of true love never did run smooth. I read the line aloud to him, finding it funny—given how not smoothly things were running.

Get it? I asked him.

But he didn’t laugh.

I can’t believe you’re choosing now to read, he said.

I don’t feel like making out, I explained.

He called me cruel, said I gave him blue balls, slammed my bedroom door behind him, and squealed his tires as he drove off. He called me when he got home, said he wanted to kill himself because I didn’t love him, said I didn’t understand the emotional and physical pain I was causing him.

Later I asked Mark, Is blue balls really a thing?

Don’t worry about it, he said.

On the phone Mark said he regrets not confronting the assault afterward: And I don’t know, maybe that was for the best. What could you say? And I basically replied, Don’t worry about it.

But maybe there’s not much the perpetrator can say. That’s why jail time exists.