Even with all those resources, even in a school district with all that wealth, we were all deprived of basic tools and dialogues that could have spared us guilt, pain, and humiliation. I think we could have handled someone facilitating an assembly about consent and harassment. We went to a school for gifted students, we were constantly praised for our maturity and intelligence. I think by the 8th grade we were all due for multiple discussions about sex, abuse, battery, and rape. I think we were surrounded by competent and attentive adults who should have intervened long before it happened. I want to say that I don’t think you’re evil, although I think you did something banally evil. I know your mother died not long after what you did. This may be a fabricated memory, but I recall that our friend who introduced us confided in me that she suspected your father beat you. I remembered you from before you transferred to my school and how we agreed that we would be friends once you joined my class. Although you were average in the scheme of things, to me you were cute and sweet. There were cuter boys, richer boys, and cooler boys.
You were bigger than me, but you weren’t lumbering. I’ve thought about it a lot and the conclusion I’ve come to is that you were a thirteen year old boy and you genuinely didn’t understand the magnitude of what you were doing.
