Narrow Escapes

In my sophomore year at college my roommates and I decide to take part in little-sister rush. (A “little sister” is an honorary female member of an otherwise all-male fraternity.) Around 10 p.m. we walk to the fraternity house, which is in a converted apartment building. The welcoming committee hands us each a red plastic cup filled to the top with beer. Almost immediately I lose my roommates in the crowd.

As the night goes on, I keep drinking, but my cup never gets more than half empty before a fraternity brother refills it. I’m having trouble keeping track of how much I’ve had, but there’s a brown-eyed boy who’s giving me a lot of attention, and I want to make a good impression. I ask Brown Eyes where the bathroom is, and he tells me I can use the one in his apartment. I have the fleeting thought that it might not be so smart to go into the apartment of a guy I just met, but I’m drunk and have to pee, so I follow him.

The bathroom is off the bedroom. When I come out a few minutes later, the room, which was empty when I entered, has six guys in it. One of them is snorting lines of cocaine off the desk. My head still feels foggy from the beer, but now there’s a sharp edge of fear. I try to smile as I head toward the door, which is closed. (I’m sure it was open when I went into the bathroom.) The guy who’s snorting coke reaches behind me to hold the door shut. He leans close to me and says something I can’t make out, but the sound of his voice sends a chill down my spine. The other guys get up and look at each other, then at me.

Suddenly clearheaded, I mumble an excuse, reach behind my back, and open the door. Then I run out of the apartment, out of the building, and all the way back to my dorm. My roommates are there. They looked for me, they say, but they figured I’d left, so they came home. I tell no one what happened.

Years later I get my master’s degree in counseling. It’s not long before I encounter a client who is a rape survivor. Her story sounds a lot like mine, except she stayed in the room two seconds longer.

D.C.
Half Moon Bay, California

Karen’s mom, Jan, startled us from sleep: “Wake up, girls! We have to hide!” We shielded our eyes from the overhead light as Jan explained that we needed to go down to the basement: her boyfriend, Rick, was drunk and thought she’d cheated on him, and he was on his way over.

Clothed only in t-shirts and panties, Karen, Jan, and I hurried down the rickety stairs and stood barefoot on the cold concrete. In spite of my fear I couldn’t help but feel a little excited. I was thirteen, and Jan was the coolest of all my friends’ moms. She smoked pot, went to rock concerts, and wore miniskirts and short-shorts. This was as close as I had ever come to being in a movie of the week.

We all jumped when Rick began beating violently on the back door and shouting, “Jan, open the door, God damn it!” Afraid he would break in, we decided to run up the stairs, out the front, and down the street to my house, where my mother was likely fast asleep. Just as Jan reached the top of the stairs, Rick’s fist burst through the back-door window. We stepped over the broken glass and dashed out of the house, looking over our shoulders to see if Rick was following.

In a matter of seconds we were on my porch, banging and yelling for my mom to let us in. It is not often that a thirteen-year-old girl is grateful to see her mother, but when mine appeared wearing a tattered old nightgown, I wanted to kiss her. Just then Rick’s car pulled up to the curb in front of my house. My mom ushered us in, and Jan breathlessly explained.

Rick knocked at the door, quietly this time, and my mom answered while Jan, Karen, and I huddled on the couch. Rick was calm but obviously drunk. “I just want to talk to Jan,” he said. My mom stepped aside and let him in. To this day I’m not sure why she did. I suspect it was her propensity to be polite.

Seeing Jan reignited Rick’s rage. This big, bearded bear of a man traversed the width of the living room in a few steps, grabbed Jan by the legs, and dragged her off the sofa and onto the floor. When my mom began to dial 911, Rick dropped Jan with a thud and put his finger on the button to disconnect the call.

Rick and my mom stood there staring at one another. My mother was a full foot shorter and less than half his weight, but she seemed to grow taller and said, “Get your goddamn hands off my phone, right now!”

Rick looked at my mother, expressionless. Then tears welled up in his eyes.

The police arrived at that moment, sirens blaring. It seemed that Rick had hit a few parked cars as he’d made his way down the street, and someone else had called 911. He walked out and sat down on the top porch step to await his fate.

As I drifted off to sleep that night in my own bed, I dreamed I was a warrior princess, heir to the throne of the warrior queen.

D.D.
Moscow, Idaho

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