Because He Likes You

My mother once told me about a time when she and Papí were arguing, and he got so angry that he raised a lamp to hit her with. Those were the days when we would hear his footsteps stomping up the front porch and rush to our places—me at my desk, Mamí in the kitchen—like actors right before the curtains come up. The smallest inconveniences could send him into a tempest of rage. Anyway, when he lifted that lamp she got right in his face, she tells me, felt his hot rage smack her with each pant. “If you’re gonna hit me,” she growled, and now their chests are touching," You better hope you kill me.” I’ll never forget this story. 

Mom always said bullies were just part of life. That you had to stand your ground and show them you were not to be messed with. When she said this, I got the urge to ask her why she married one, but I held my tongue. After all, she’s also the one who claimed that boys were mean to girls because they like them, which confused and nauseated me. Don’t ever let a boy make you feel like you’re lesser. You’re better than that, she would say. And I would wonder if that was true. 

When I got to high school, the bullies were there alright. I learned quickly that in life there are angry people and there are easy targets; I learned even quicker which group I belonged to. For a while I was protected because I dated the handsome quarterback. But once he took away his affection for me (and my virginity), things changed overnight. Suddenly I was not just unpopular, but an unpopular slut. This made gym class especially fun: I would round the corner of the hallway where our locker-rooms were and the boys who lined it (“Guys, she’s coming, do the thing!”) would gag forcefully and make exaggerated vomiting noises. It was Oscar-worthy, really. I tried to face forward and focus on other things so I wouldn't burst into tears. Whenever they taunted, my silence grew heavier in my stomach, and my mind would race with thoughts about how deeply I was failing my mother in not heeding her advice. My desire to fire back at them was juxtaposed by reminders that retorting or resisting in my house always led to more trouble. So in the end, I swallowed the abuse like cough syrup.

But there was one bully who reigned supreme: my neighbor, Dylan Lewis. 

Dylan and I go way back. When I moved to town in the first grade, his father was the first to greet us. Mr. Lewis, a handsome man with a shiny bald head, was not simply tall; he was Tall. The kind of Tall that made it so that you had to crane your neck upwards to glimpse his perfect smile. He retained this height even with the hemihypertrophy he had, which is when you're born with a leg longer than the other. He walked with a slight limp, which just came off as a confident swagger. 

“Hey y’all, welcome to the neighborhood,” he said kindly. “This is my son, Dylan. I think you two are the same age, Sofi.” From behind him came Dylan, who was also abnormally tall for his age and who wore the meanest look on his face, as if the world had pissed him off just by being there when he woke up. He said nothing, just giving me a cold stare. I couldn’t help but notice his own handsome face though— my seven-year-old heart beat louder the longer he stared with those cold eyes, even though I could sense fury beneath them.

When Mr. Lewis and his wife had to work early mornings, my parents welcomed Dylan into our home. Always quiet and polite when adults were around, he was quick to turn his inexplicable rage on me, berating me with insults that I started to believe I deserved. I would have gone to my parents… but there were these peculiar moments when he would carry a somberness much too wise for his age. On these days, he was softer, less guarded. He let me play video games with him. He laughed at some of my jokes. Sometimes, when he rode his bike past my house at night, he would beam his flashlight through my window, and my elated face would appear in its black frame. But these days were uncommon and unpredictable. I eventually felt a confusing jumble of dread and excitement whenever I learned that he was coming over. When he stopped coming over altogether, I came to find the sound of his bouncing basketball from across the street, my only indication that he was there, a sort of comforting, melancholic lullaby.

But his rage did not dissipate with age; rather, it fermented into something worse. 

Dylan made getting off the school bus a living nightmare for me and me only. The leader of the back-of-the-bus bullies, he had identified me as the weakest link. Our bus stop left us a couple of blocks from home, so we had to walk from Stillwell Avenue to the corner of Roberts and Williams Street every day. That meant a full five minutes of teasing. Oddly, though, there were instances where Dylan was irritated by what someone else was saying to me. I recall one kid giving me a hard time when I was standing in the middle aisle of the bus.

“Move out of the way, slut,” the little asshole barked. Dylan sprang up from his seat all the way in the back. He towered over every single one of us. No one moved. He made his way toward the kid in a very calm manner, his glasses gleaming in the sunlight.

“What'd you just call her?”

Silence.

“Right. Watch your fucking mouth.” I felt something stir inside, though I couldn’t tell if it was arousal or disgust.

 I have to give him credit— Dylan’s nicknames were creative, at least.

“Hey, WhoreFace!”

“Hey, Stripper Tits!”

“Hey, it’s SuperSpic! Hablas español? Did your daddy’s papers come in the mail yet?”

I wanted to point out that he had no real business making fun of my immigrant parents, considering that he had a Puerto Rican mother hidden at home, but I said nothing. Just keep it pushing, and maybe they’ll stop. I smiled and let out a weak chuckle, hoping that if I played along it might make me less pathetic (it didn’t). Dylan’s enthusiasm only made the others feel more powerful, more daring. My frizzy hair and gapped teeth were the usual topics of interest.

“Yo, why do bitches be having those ugly ass gaps between their teeth?” Dylan would start, making sure I could hear.

“I heard, you get them from sucking too much dick,” someone would respond.

“Well, I heard you get them from retardation occurring in the womb,” someone else would follow. Ha, ha, ha. It went on like this for a while. 

In short, he was a prick. But I would venture to say that pricks don’t just grow on trees. They all have a reason why. I spent most of my formative years trying to investigate why Dylan's heart was two sizes too small. One thing I did notice was his tragic love for basketball. Tragic because, like his father, he had a slight limp, which meant that he couldn’t keep up with the other boys. Despite this deficiency, his aim and accuracy were unmatched; Couch Rogers would have him instruct the team during practices. Mr. Lewis attended every single game— even when Dylan wasn’t there. He always looked pensive and calculating. The fact that Dylan would never be allowed to play in a real game made Mr. Lewis, I think, deeply unhappy. As if his bad genes meant he had a role in crushing his son’s dreams. And as nice as Mr. Lewis had always been to my family and me, I knew his form of discipline with his own children was more severe. If Dylan had forgotten to take the trash out, or if he scratched the car while hooping in the driveway, his eyes would brim with fear and apprehension as we walked home from school.

On the first day of my junior year, I found that, to my dismay, Dylan and I shared a class together. The fact that he even got into an advanced English course shocked, impressed, and insulted me all at once. This was supposed to be my favorite class, somewhere I would thrive. Now, the Confidence Killer had arrived. 

We did an icebreaker where everyone went around and said their first name, preceded by an adjective. Oh, I could certainly think of a few for him. Devilish Dylan. Dickbag Dylan. Dumbass Dylan.

“Divine Dylan,” he finally says, with a grin that I wished was not so charming. It lit up my soul, made memories of playing video games and having hose fights in the backyard flood back.

One day, it was only Divine Dylan and me walking home. This had the most incredible effect on him: he was being sort of kind. Asking me about my day, asking what I was gonna write for our English assignment. Alarm bells rang in my head: Do not trust him. But I couldn’t resist that smile. And today the attention felt extra special, because instead of my usual T-shirt and sweats, I had gone out on a limb and wore the new purple dress my mother bought for me. Its pattern was planets and stars, a long sleeve cut with a zipper that sometimes split open in the back. But a pretty dress, nonetheless. I thought Dylan’s new attitude might have been a result of this iconic glow-up. But just as quickly as it came, it left. As I was talking, he snatched a textbook out of my arms and chucked it a couple of feet in front of us. As he roared with obnoxious laughter, I sighed and defeatedly walked over to get it. As I bent down carefully, I heard a loud and disconcerting rrrrrrrrrip. My eyes widened as I heard Dylan’s laugh get louder and full of glee, and I felt a draft on my backside. To make matters even worse: it started to rain. I remained there crouching with my eyes closed, hoping that if I just stayed perfectly still, I would die right there on the spot before anything more embarrassing could possibly occur. But to my surprise, an umbrella appeared above me. I felt a gentle hand on my now exposed shoulder.

“Come on, get up.”

And together we walked the five minutes home, with Dylan clasping my dress shut in the back with one hand and holding the umbrella above both of us with his other. When we reached my front door, I managed to mumble a quick “thanks” before turning to go inside.

“Aw, what, now I don’t get to come in?” He grinned. The sight and sound were eerily reminiscent of that story about the Big Bad Wolf. I told him to get lost and went inside. I didn’t let myself smile until I was on the other side of the door. 

That night I received a Snapchat message from the Wolf himself.

Now I finally know what you keep hidden under all them baggy clothes😂 show me more?😈

I wish I could tell you that I didn’t. That I seized this opportunity to put him in his place, that I verbally annihilated his sorry ass. But instead, I succumbed to my crippling insecurity and thirst for validation, and I did send those pictures. Wolves, after all, sniff out the weakest of the litter to eat first. Eventually, Dylan asked me to come over. I looked at the clock, suddenly panicked. It was getting very late now. I had never snuck out of the house. This was where I had to draw the line, and so I did, very reluctantly. To my relief, he didn’t react angrily. He just said that it was going to happen, one day. I wondered if that was true.

The next day, I felt reborn. Getting off the bus, the usual cloud of gloom that hung over me was nowhere to be found. I waited, like a fool, for Dylan to come off of the bus and walk me home again. Except, when he did come out, he was arm in arm with Molly, a pretty white girl with blue eyes and hair that didn’t frizz. I tried to stare him down to get his eyes to meet mine, but they wouldn’t. He walked right past me, whispering something in Molly’s ear that made her giggle and glance past her shoulder at me. Crestfallen, I slowly walked a couple feet behind them.

I didn’t take the bus for months after that. The week of the dress, of the photos, and of Molly, was the week I started hitching rides with other people. On a day when no one could take me, though, I walked onto the bus and turned my attention to the back. Dylan and his goons were there, and I saw his face light up when he noticed me. I sat down without acknowledging him and stared out of the window for the entire ride.

As we walked off the bus and headed in home’s direction, Dylan picked up his usual routine.

“Hey, Sofia Gonorrhea’s back, y’all!” No chuckles or smiles on my part. No tears either; I felt numb. Dylan could tell. He was getting frustrated, as none of his insults seemed to be getting the reaction he craved. He was flinging them at the back of my head, and was looking stupid in front of his henchmen.

“Look at me when I talk to you. Look at me, God dammit!” and with that, I felt his huge hand clap my shoulder.

He didn’t mean to push me. My fall was a result of his freakish size, and I guess he didn’t know his own strength. But he pushed me, nonetheless. I had no time to put my arms out in front of me, so I landed face down into one of the neighbor’s fresh piles of manure. Laughter from the other kids erupted behind me. I spit out a clump of dirt. I lay there for a little too long, my face burning. My knee was bleeding from scrapping the cement sidewalk. Dylan had hurried over to me, but was just staring at me with dumb surprise now.

“Sofi, you good? Look, just get up, okay?” He was whispering, the cowardly little bitch. "I’m sorry, all right? So just get up. My dad hates when I’m home late, I mean he hates—” He was cut off by my outraged scream, the sound of hate and heartbreak. The laughter from the others went from jolly to nervous to quiet. I ran home. 

I scrubbed my face and hands through choked sobs. Looking in the mirror at the filth caked in my hair, I never hated my own reflection more. “You’re better than this,” I told my dirty image. “You’re better than this. You’re…” The desperation in my voice was palpable; I could only feel loathing toward myself and the world. I needed somewhere to direct all this. I left my house again, my feet now taking me in the direction of Dylan’s, as if they had made up their minds before I had. I waited for Mr. Lewis to back out of their driveway and drive down the street and out of sight. Then I made my way to the door. I was gonna tell Dylan off. I was gonna let him have it. I banged wildly on the front door until he opened it, ready to let out the filthiest insults. But the sight of him took my breath away, and this time it was not because of his smile. 

Dylan’s eye was swollen and turning a grotesque shade of purple. Both his quivering lip and his eyebrow were cut and bleeding profusely. He was panting, so I assumed the scuffle had just occurred. His mouth was ajar, and I could see the blood puddling under his gums like a gruesome waterfall. We stared at each other, both bleeding and crying and filled with hate. It seemed that, aside from his handsome looks, Dylan had inherited another trait from his dad.

I have the urge to tell you that the harassment stopped after that, but maybe that’s just how I want to remember it. I genuinely can’t recall when it stopped permanently. I guess it stopped mattering. I got into my dream college and study abroad program, got a serious boyfriend, lost some weight. I was getting out of town, and everybody knew it. On to bigger and better things. I learned that the weight of harsh words and criticisms says more about the person saying them than they do about you. 

Years later, in college, I got a call from Dylan. We caught up, I described what Paris was like, he informed me that he had gotten into an honors business program at school. Toward the end of the call, he asked if I would want to grab dinner sometime. I asked him if he remembered the day of the pushing. He lied and said he didn’t, and I told him to have a good night and that I wished him luck in his program. It pained me to do so because he sounded genuinely hurt, confused even, but I was determined to stand my ground in ways that not even my mother ever could. 

The other week I visited home and was studying with the blinds open. The moonlight cast a dreamy hue over my childhood bedroom. Suddenly, a spotlight hit the bare wall opposite my bedpost: a flashlight. I didn’t move from my desk, but I did smile a little, feeling half nostalgic, half victorious.