50. Excerpt from Anthony Stephens’ Mood Journal

May 29 2004 (continued)

Two days after the Carol incident, I was nowhere near as angry as I had been. I was actually thinking it was all pretty minor, as far as embarrassing moments go. By then my balls weren’t hurting anymore and my outfit had been washed and still looked decent and I was okay with it all, just doing my thing. I was done with Carol, obviously, and I let her know it. She tried calling twice but I saw her name on the caller ID and told my mom I didn’t want to talk to her. Mom didn’t ask any questions.

Anyways, that all happened on a Friday, so it was a Sunday afternoon that I was in my room playing NBA Live and there was a knock on the front door. I came out in the living room and my mother had already answered and there was Carol’s mom, nose flared, staring over my mom’s shoulder at me like I was something she’d just stepped on in the grass.

She pointed at me and said—word for word I remember perfectly—“I’m going to fucking kill you, you little shit.”

She tried to get in the house and come after me and I wanted to run in my room and lock my door but I stood my ground (more because I was scared shitless than anything else) while my mom pushed Carol’s mom back out the door. My mom was intense, man. Should’ve seen her. She was like superwoman that day. Carol’s mom had at least four inches on her and probably twenty, thirty pounds. But my mom had her back out the door in a second, screaming that she was going to call the police if Carol’s mom didn’t get out. And Carol’s mom turned to my mom, looked her right in her face and said “I already did.”

And my mom, looking confused, said “already did what?”

Carol’s mom looked back at me and her face was like fucking Medusa or something. She spit out, “the police, for him,” then pointed at me and,I mean, I could’ve imagined her hair just standing on end right then and hissing at me. Carol’s mom looked back at my mother and suddenly her shoulders slouched, her eyes filling with tears. And while I’m standing there trying to figure out what exactly is going on, Carol’s mom says “your son is a raping bastard.” And then, just to sink it in a little deeper—as if the accusation wasn’t already obvious—she burst out crying and said “he raped my daughter.”

I remember I had to think for a second about it, roll the idea around my mind.

Carol’s mom looked and sounded so convincing right then, so sure that what she was saying was the absolute truth, that I actually stood there and wondered if I had raped the girl. I’m standing there asking myself, “when’s the last time we had sex? Did she want to? Did she say no? Did she even kind of say no?”

Me, who has never violated anybody or even thought about anything close to the idea of forcing somebody to have sex with me in my life, I’m standing there doubting myself.

And it was in that moment of indecisiveness that my mother chose to turn around and look at me. Not a few minutes later, after I’d gotten my shit together. Not earlier, when I was just surprised by it all.

She looked at me right in the middle of my doubt and saw that wavering look on my face, and she didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask me if it was true, if there was anything I needed to tell her, nothing. She just stared at me with this look that’s hard to describe. It was like she was seeing me for the first time ever and just realizing she hated what she’d given birth to.

Carol’s mom said “they’re on their way” then slammed our door, stormed off to her car and raced out of the driveway. As soon as she was gone my mother opened the door again and pointed outside.

The way she said “get out,” I couldn’t even respond. I just walked into my room, threw a bunch of shit in a bag, and left.

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