I was raped when I was ten. I spent much of the rest of my life self-destructing.
My parents will never let me go camping with guys older than me, who they don’t know and who I only know through my CB radio. But they made it sound so great: eating over a campfire, playing games, sleeping in tents. So I tell Mom that I’m going with a kid I met through the radio, Billy, and his father. This is the biggest lie I’ve ever told her, but I really want to go.
Of course, Mom is against it. “Go with one of your friends who we know,” she says.
“I don’t have any friends,” I say as I push my glasses up on my nose. I hate that they keep sliding down.
“Sure you do. You must have friends from class.”
“No, since Bobby moved away there isn’t anyone. The other kids make fun of me because I’m no good at baseball or basketball or anything. You’re always telling me to go downstairs and play, but there isn’t anyone to play with. That’s why I wanted the CB radio. And now I do have a friend, and you won’t let me go camping with him.” I can hear myself whining.
“You’re going overnight?” my mother asks.
“Yeah, it’s camping”
“Don’t roll your eyes at me Will. And I want to meet them.”