I suppose a lot of middle-aged guys would be thrilled to find a sex-crazed twenty-year-old named Brianna on their doorstep, but I’ve had too many bad experiences with neighbors to welcome even the most affectionate of them with open arms. I am tempted not to answer the door for two reasons: 1) I’m the only one here, and Brianna didn’t come for me, and 2) She came for our oldest boy, Josh, who, despite his Gandhi-esque calmness, finds her mere presence justifiable cause for homicide.
Unfortunately, she sees me working at the computer, and I am obliged to acknowledge her presence.

“Is Josh here?” she asks.

“No, he’s at work. Should be back around six,” I say, hoping this will end the conversation.

“He’s such a little gayboy,” she continues. “He’s all, like, ‘Ooo, I gotta go to work. Ooo, I gotta make all this money so I can go to college.’”

“Well,” I say, “I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

I begin to close the door but she quickly interjects, “Did you know I got raped last night?”

“Oh, god, no,” I say, suddenly feeling guilty about having tried to rush her away. “Please, come in.”

It is very unlike me to invite an emotionally damaged neighbor into my house, especially if I am home alone and she is crying rape. But she looks like hell, and I can tell that something really did happen. For a moment, I am flattered that this troubled adolescent has singled me out as her trusted confidante. But why shouldn’t she? I teach ethics, after all. No doubt my years of studying humanity’s greatest moral theorists have left me with an air of integrity that even the most passing of acquaintances cannot help but notice. I feel as wise and respected as a village elder until she steps inside my house and proclaims incredulously, “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it yet. I told Helen and Chris. And Thomas and Pat. Plus that guy at the gas station with those weird, like, pimples or whatever on his nose.”

I am baffled by the scope of Brianna’s publicity campaign but remind myself that the trauma of rape must bring about some pretty inexplicable reactions. If spreading the word to as many caring souls as possible is what Brianna needs in order to begin her healing process, then I vow to be immaculately receptive.

At least that’s what I tell myself. In practice, I find it nearly impossible to honor this vow the moment Brianna starts telling her story. “It was a nigger, you know,” she says. “Too bad, huh?”

The N-word always gets my dander up, but it’s the “Too bad, huh?” that really weirds me out. As if it wouldn’t have been too bad to be raped by someone whose racial profile matched her own. I want her to leave in the worst way, but she has closed the door behind herself, and there is now a sense of finality to her arrival.

Brianna tells me she was coming home from a party around one in the morning. She was pretty drunk and “all made-up real nice.” I have seen Brianna’s version of “made-up real nice” and can not help but wonder if she thinks “nice” is synonymous with “slutty.” I feel pretty bad about my current line of thinking, because I hate it when defense attorneys assert that the rape victim’s manner of dress was the cause of the rape. It bothers the hell out of me that I can be so judgmental at a time like this, so I try my hardest just to be quiet and listen to the story.

Brianna goes on to relay a truly horrifying account. She is walking home from the light rail station when her assailant strikes up a conversation. When they reach Burbank High School, he grabs her by the hair and drags her into the dark and sound-proof hallways. He cuts her clothes off with a knife, forces himself upon her, then threatens to stab her if she looks at him.

I want to say something profound, something that will make the pain go away, but I am dumbfounded by the sheer brutality of her ordeal, and all that comes out is the most redundant question imaginable.

“Did you call the cops?” I ask.

“Shit, yeah!” she exclaims. “Soon as he was done doin’ his little business, I ran to the store all naked and I was like, ‘Please, you gotta let me use the phone.’ You shoulda seen it. The guy in the store was so totally checkin’ me out.”

I detect a tone of pride in her voice. Evidently, the conversation Brianna wants to have is all about how hot she is, but I am unprepared to deal with the possibility that someone could be flattered by a store clerk’s ogling only moments after being raped at knifepoint, so I proceed with the conversation I want.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that on top of everything else,” I say. “That’s terrible.”

“What is?” she asks, confused. She is genuinely incapable of finding anything regrettable in a post-rape ogling.

I marvel at Brianna’s shallowness. And yet I cannot revel unconditionally in my feeling of superiority, because, for the first time since I opened the door, I feel the stirrings of a genuinely sympathetic emotion. The rape was bad, but what really saddens me is the depth of Brianna’s need to be desired.

“So, what’d the cops do?” I ask, not knowing what else to say.

“They took me to the hospital and asked me a buncha questions,” she responds, adding proudly, “They were checkin’ me out, too.”

“Do they think they’ll catch the guy?” I ask.

“Well, they took some sperm outa my cooch and ran some tests on it,” she explains, “but I’m not sure it’ll work, cuz I just got done with two other guys, and both of their stuff was in me, too.”

As a father, I cannot imagine how I would feel if a daughter of mine had gone through such hell, so I ask Brianna how her dad is taking all this.

“Alright,” she says. “He came and picked me up at the hospital after it was all done.”

“How long did that take?” I ask.

“About four hours,” she responds. I am baffled, because Brianna and her father both live right across the street, less than five minutes from the hospital. Ronny seems like a nice enough guy, so why wouldn’t he want to be with his daughter as soon as possible?

“He knew there’d be cops there,” Brianna explains. “And ever since he done his time, he don’t want nothin’ to do with no cops.”

Neighbors have told me that Ronny served time, but I never asked why. It’s none of my business, and, frankly, I don’t want to know. I am perfectly happy assuming that all of my neighbors are evildoers and that the crimes of any given one of them won’t have any effect on the paranoid way I live my life.

The next question I ask is designed to foster idol chat, but Brianna mishears it in a way that leads to a much more revealing conversation than I am willing to have. “How’s he holding up now?” I ask.

“He didn’t hold nobody up,” she responds, defensively. “He fucked someone who called the cops on him. Big deal. I mean, yeah, she was young and all, but she was askin’ for it, so what’s she complainin’ about?”

I try not to jump to any conclusions about Ronny, but knowing that Ronny has raped someone else’s under-aged daughter makes me wonder what he has done to his own. I suddenly understand how Brianna could be flattered by the store clerk ogling her, how her life may have led her to view the inappropriate sexual advances of men as an affirmation of her worth. I feel sick to my stomach.

“I… I’m… sorry,” I stammer awkwardly, “I wasn’t asking what he did. I was just asking how he’s coping with what happened to you.”

“Fine, I guess,” she shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m just pissed it was a nigger. I don’t mind it when white guys rape me, but a nigger’s gotta ask. Shit, if he’da just asked I’da prob’ly given it to him. I’m not a racist, ya know. I just don’t like niggers.”

Somehow, this assurance that she is not a racist fails to convince me. I see fewer and fewer reasons to continue this conversation, especially considering that my importance as a member of Brianna’s moral support team is less than that of the anonymous pimply-nosed guy at the gas station.

“Well,” I say, “Josh’ll be back around six. I’ll let him know you stopped by.”

I gesture toward the door, but Brianna is not ready to leave yet. “Hey, what’re them little statues you got up there?” she asks, pointing to the high shelf where I keep my Buddha collection. “Are they like some kinda little gods or somethin’?”

“No, they’re Buddhas,” I explain.

“Oh, that’s cool,” she concedes. “Of course, I believe in the one true God.”

“Whatever works,” I say.

“I’m a Christian,” she explains.

“So I gather,” I say.

“My dad’s church kinda sucks, though,” she continues. “I mean, it’s okay. Like, some of the guys are pretty cool. But some of ‘em I think are really faggots. Like this one guy, I showed him my titties, and he was, like, ‘Whatever,’ and I was like, all, ‘Whatsa matter with you, ya fuckin’ gayboy?!’”

“That sounds very frustrating,” I say in the most patronizing voice I can muster. This requires no bravery on my part, since I’m pretty sure Brianna can’t detect my condescension.

“But then some of ‘em are really cool,” she goes on. “Like the two that fucked me just before I got raped. I told the cops I didn’t wanna get them in trouble if their cum showed up in the tests. Actually, one of ‘em did it mostly in my mouth, so he’s probably okay. But, still, I don’t want either one of ‘em to get in trouble, cuz we go to the same church and all.”

“Makes sense,” I say, settling back into my computer chair. It is evident that Brianna is not going to leave any time soon, and I lack the heart to actively evict her. The talk about religion makes me think of how zealously my down-home Protestant mother tried to imbue her children with a reckless, tearful sympathy for the unfortunate. She would be so disappointed in me now, but I just can’t summon the compassion to comfort Brianna unreservedly. Heart-to-heart conversation seems impossible, and a supportive hug would almost certainly be taken the wrong way. As guilty as it makes me feel, the only thing I can think to do is resume my work as if Brianna were not even in the room. For the next half hour she raves about all the cute guys who think she’s hot and fantasizes that Josh is sexually pursuing her. I peck away at the keyboard, occasionally punctuating her monologue with grunts of simulated acknowledgment.

Of course, this is the worst thing I could do, because being ignored is probably what has made her so needy in the first place. The more I want her to leave, the more she craves my approval. Eventually, I get tired of feigning sympathy and stop nodding altogether. Her reaction is to fill my personal space as quickly as possible. “Hey,” she exclaims, drawing uncomfortably close, “I been thinkin’ about becomin’ a Buddhist myself.”

She presses her pubis against the back of my chair and pretends that she is straining to look at the statues. I suddenly realize just how desperate she is for a tangible sign of my approval and worry that if I do not find a way out of this soon, it will end in great discomfort.

“Maybe you could take me to your little Buddhist church sometime,” she asks suggestively.

I freeze like a cat in traffic. I know disaster is upon me, but I have no idea how to prevent it. Time stands still, as I lift my eyes to the upper shelf and both of us now gaze on the many forms of the Awakened One. What must this moment mean to Brianna? Is it religious? Is it sexual? Is there a difference to her? Is there a difference to me? Maybe we could end this moment amicably if we could only agree that the Buddha’s not her kind of sex, and she’s not my kind of religion. Pure and simple. No judgments. Maybe the answer to this crisis is as simple as each of us being who we are.

And that’s when the solution hits me: I’m a teacher. That’s what I do. I teach. And teaching is the only way I can be true to myself and still give her the sign of approval she wants. I am nearly twice this girl’s age—an authority figure—and it’s time to start acting like it.

“Do you really want to go to my church?” I ask placing my hand on her shoulder.

“Yes,” she says, clearly happy to be touched.

“Alright,” I say, “But you gotta do a little homework first.”

I go to my bookshelf and pull down a biography of the Buddha. It is a picture book, designed to be read to children at bedtime. I hand it to her and tell her that it will give her a basic idea of what Buddhism is about. She looks surprised but not put off by the gesture. After all, I have given her something. Even if it is not something she wants, it is still a sign of my approval.

She sits on the couch and reads in silence for a few minutes then closes the book and says, “Ya know what I still don’t understand? How come all of a sudden he didn’t want me lookin’ at him? I mean, I already seen what he looked like. It wasn’t like makin’ me look away was gonna keep me from bein’ able to identify him to the police or nothin’.”

I have been on this planet much longer than Brianna. For good or for ill, I have far greater insights into the workings of depraved minds. I am qualified to teach her on this subject.

“He wasn’t afraid of being identified,” I tell her. “He was a afraid you might be stronger than him. Sex is a very powerful thing, Brianna. If you look a man in the eyes during that moment, you’re his equal—maybe even better.”

She stops for a moment and thinks.

“All the same,” she adds, “I’m glad I looked away.”

“It was the best thing you could do under the circumstances,” I say, patting her on the shoulder. “Smart move.”

I offer Brianna more books, but she respectfully declines. This is not her kind of religion, and that’s all right.

“I swear,” she says, as she crosses the street headed back to her own home, “you shoulda seen the way that guy at the store was checkin’ me out. He had a boner as big as a baseball bat.”

“You’re a hottie,” I assure her, closing the door and returning to my workspace. I am glad to see her go, and I mean that in a good way. Why feel guilty about sending such a misplaced visitor on her way? Brianna is simply not my kind of sex, and that, too, has got to be all right.