The Letter

Dear K_____:

You took us to see a raunchy, R-rated movie. Three 16-year-old girls and you, our gymnastics coach. Age 24.

Afterward, you drove us to an abandoned circle, the patina of construction dirt staining new blacktop. You launched a make-out session of sorts. We must have been drinking, or such awkward amour would’ve been too much. After you drove me home, the pressed memory of your kiss made my knees buckle.

You had dropped me off last, and I wanted all your attentions.

A few weeks later, under some pretense, I drove to your apartment. The living room was bachelor empty: a couch, a television, and dark gray carpet.

I don’t know what I thought would happen.

We talked about something. Scores or stats. And then, without a word of romance, we shifted to the floor, you leaning heavily into me. We started to kiss again.

Within a few seconds, I began to tremble.

Violently. Uncontrollably.

Later, when I drove my Honda Civic back home, my neck burned—not from passion, but from shame.

“It was just the angle,” I told myself, “the way we were sitting that caused me to shake.”

You, perhaps guided by a glimmer of conscience, had pulled away from the tremulous girl. I would never remember the details of our parting. Maybe we exchanged a few clumsy words, and I left. One thing I knew: I had failed to perform—judged too young. Not woman, not child.

You and I never spoke of it. And you kept on coaching.

There were others. Whispers about a friend of mine. A basket of flowers or candy or something, and a “Thank You” note from you. I turned 17 years old. After the final season you threatened, under some other pretense, to hold back my school letter. A high school letter: What throwback to innocence.

I wanted no badge from you.