Thursday, April 19, 2012

The Yearbook: Alicia

The year was 1982. We danced to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” album and watched “E.T.” on the silver screen. John Belushi died and Prince William was born. We exercised  to Jane Fonda video tapes and never missed watching “Dynasty” on TV. Gas cost 91 cents a gallon and a stamp two dimes. We were spooked by the Tylenol scare and held our breath as the recession began.
It was a year of promise and pain, of sweetness and sorrow.

But it was OUR year. 

We were the Class of 1982, and we were ready to take on the world.     

Alicia (Yearbook post/1982) 
To a really super friend and a great person to be with. Never forget all of the fun we had playing Barbies when we were kids.  I’m not good at words like you are but I hope you realize how much I value our friendship. Take care of yourself and I wish you the best of luck in everything you do.  Love always, Alicia



Alicia and I spent many afternoons playing Barbies. She lived down the street, and I’d cart my Barbie house and my Barbie car and my Barbie case over to her house. She had a big bedroom, and there was lots of space on her shag carpet to spread everything out. We spent entire afternoons pretending.
Alicia and I vowed that when we grew up, we’d get an apartment together. Of course, we’d have fabulous jobs and fabulous boyfriends who would turn into fabulous husbands. And we’d live in fabulous homes and have fabulous kids. Everything would be fabulous.

Talk about a colossal fail because it wasn’t too fabulous for Alicia -- in fact, what happened to Alicia was devastating and changed her life forever.

She was running alone at dusk through a cemetery on the edge of town and was raped by a man that had apparently hidden behind the mausoleum.  It was a weeknight, and the place was empty.

They never found the rapist, and Alicia never went running again. She became a hermit, afraid to leave her house.

Whenever I’m home, I visit her. She spends her days knitting blankets for a local women’s shelter. There was a story about her in the paper. Mom, of course, cut it out and sent it to me.

I get so depressed when I visit Alicia and then I feel guilty for being so depressed. The Alicia I knew was in love with life. She wanted to do things and go places and, of course, have a fabulous life. I tried talking to her about the rape but the minute I mention it she screams for me to leave. So I stopped.

I hate the prison walls she has built up around her. I hate that the doctors have not been able to help her. I hate that she doesn’t have the fabulous life she always wanted and deserves. Mostly, I hate the guy who brutally raped her and left her for dead. She wasn’t found until the next day when a train of cars snaked through the narrow roads of the cemetery on the way to a burial site. The men driving the hearse saw her as they passed the mausoleum. She wasn’t moving. They thought she was dead. Turned out they were more right than wrong.

Other posts in this blog series





  1. Sounds to real which makes it good writing.

  2. You have a good "gotcha". I would like to read something longer.

  3. Jess... Actually, this yearbook series is part of a novel that I'm working on. The one that begins with the line: The bastard was dead. I could, however, turn this post/idea into a short story. Hmm. I'll have to think about that. Thanks so much for reading:)