When I was 14, I had my only brush with being found out.
My Dad and I lived in a townhouse complex across the street from my junior high school. This was very convenient for me, as I’d often come home at lunch, often with several school friends. I rarely had to take a lunch to school, and would just eat whatever I wanted when I came home. This included lunches such as a litre of vanilla ice cream with a litre of grapefruit juice. Yeah, I was a weird kid. 🙂
My Dad worked pretty much regular hours, 7:30am to 5:00pm or there abouts. I stopped having a babysitter around grade 5, since I was fairly self sufficient, so had the run of the place until Dad got home. We had also kind of worked out an unspoken rule that if my bedroom door was closed, Dad wouldn’t go in. I knew it wasn’t a foolproof system, but I trusted in it to a certain extent.
I was, and still am, terrible at keeping a tidy bedroom. I’m trying to get better (honest Teresa!), but I still leave clothes on the floor. My bedroom when I was 14 was a disaster. Clothes, toys, games, computer stuff, all over the place. I had a desk, a bed, and a chest of drawers in the room. Everything was a mess. 🙂
One particular day, I hadn’t put all my girls’ clothes away. It didn’t happen very often that that was the case, but it did happen. They were usually put away in a black garbage bag, and then tucked into a drawer under my bed. So, I left out a bra, panties, and a skirt on this particular day. They weren’t totally obvious with just a quick glance, I thought, but they were fairly centre in field of view.
I was out playing ball hockey as that’s pretty much what we did after school every day, or it could have been football, but pretty sure it was hockey. I came home around 5:30 for dinner. Dad did not look happy. I don’t remember the conversation exactly in words, but more in feelings. Within seconds I was being accused of having a girl over and having sex with her.
Now, one thing about me, is that I HATE being falsely accused of something. So, of course I denied this vehemently. I couldn’t come out and say the clothes were mine, though. I was just denying and denying and denying that there was any outside girl involved in this. I was flattered that he thought I was popular enough to even have a girl over (which never happened in all my teenage years), but I couldn’t just cop to the lie, and live with those consequences. He even asked if he had the clothes tested for semen would mine be found on the clothes. “yes,” I said quietly. (although I know now, he would not have found my semen, because no one has to date *cynical laugh*).
Finally, exasperated I think, Dad finally asked if the clothes were mine. I believe what I said came out as a whimper, “yes.” I don’t really remember how the conversation concluded after that, but I was shaking. Neither of us knew how to deal with the situation. There was probably an awkward pause, and I may have just left the kitchen and went to my room to clean it. It was fairly traumatic for me. I get flashes of visuals thinking about it – the wall colour, the kitchen light, the dining room table, looking at my feet and the carpet.
Not the greatest ending to the story, but suffice to say my Dad thought it was just a phase, and he remembered the incident when I came out to him a few months ago. Guess it wasn’t just a phase after all, eh?
– Jess