It didn’t take long before the outburst in the cafeteria between Sam and I – along with his loud mention of the woman in the window – led to another rumor. My rumors were piling up. The hair ball. My daily attire (gray sweatpants and gray sweatshirt each day). My hygiene (which had gotten pretty bad). And the woman in the window.
None of the circling comments were ever quite right, of course. It was more like a game of telephone, the guesses got worse and worse the more people talked. The popular ones went something like this:
A woman had fallen out of my window.
A woman had broken through my window.
I had drawn a woman in my window because I was obsessed with her.
I had drawn a woman in my window because I was a lesbian.
I had seen the ghost of a woman in my window.
And then, there was a woman who came through my window each night to molest me.
Kids are jerks. Especially teenage boys.
But strangely, the last rumor might have been closest to the truth. Molesting me sexually? No. Molesting my life with her unwanted touch upon my life? Every night, yes.