Diary of a Young Girl

by Mark Anthony

  The assistant district attorney had me come into her office a week after the blood type was confirmed as a match. What she explained to me was that not only did the blood type match but that Antonio Reid had one of the most rare blood types in the world. He had an AB blood type.

  I can still hear the joy in her voice and the elation on her face as she grabbed me and hugged me and said, “Shayla, do you know what this means? This means we’re gonna nail this bastard and send him away for more than twenty years! Only four percent of the population has that blood type. Four percent, that’s it—just one in every ten thousand people have that rare of a blood type. So for you and Tara to pick him out of a lineup and for his blood type to match, combined with the fact that he admittedly was in Manhattan at the time the rape occurred, and he has a violent past—Shayla, you’re gonna get the justice that is due you. It’s open-and-shut.”

  Man, when I left the district attorney’s office that day I was so elated and felt so vindicated that I instinctively called my father. I had to share the news with him. I called him repeatedly at his house and at his girlfriend’s house and I never got anyone to pick up the phone. I left numerous messages telling him the good news about the certainty of the rapist based on the odds of his rare blood type. Still I got no answer from my pops.

  The pain I felt from feeling like my dad had scorned me was what sent me over the edge as far as splurging and spending. I guess I was trying to buy myself friends and relationships of substance so I shelled out thousands and thousands. After it was all said and done, when Dick Clark announced that it was now 1992, I was feeling empty.

  About twenty minutes after the new year had rung in I rushed to my bathroom because I had to throw up. All the liquor that I had been drinking was ready to come out and I soon found myself worshiping the porcelain god, better known as the toilet bowl.

  I felt horrible. With spit hanging from my mouth and chunks of regurgitated food on my clothes I plopped my face on the floor and just lay there stretched out on the cold bathroom floor feeling depressed. A thought flashed threw my mind that told me to get up and get a razor blade and slit both of my wrists. I probably would have carried that out but I didn’t have the wits or the energy to get up and make it to my room to get a razor blade so I just laid there.

  “God, please just help me,” I said very softly. “Please God, help me,” I said again as tears started to form in my eyes.

  I thought about my mom and how I wanted to make her proud of me. Then, as I laid there it was like I could hear this voice in my head that kept telling me to call Ms. Boswell. The voice kept saying it over and over and over again. It was like the voice was getting louder and louder. Get up and call her right now and tell her everything, the voice said.

  I was confused, dazed, drunk, sick, and an overall hot mess. But on my hands and knees I still managed to crawl back to my living room. I found my pocketbook and I retrieved Ms. Boswell’s card.

  It read: Andrea Boswell, Manhattan District Attorney.

  It also had all of her office contact info on the front of the card, and on the back of the card was Ms. Boswell’s cell phone number and her home telephone number, which she had handwritten specifically for me to have.

  See, she had recently taken over for the previous Manhattan district attorney. Ms. Boswell was not the district attorney on the night I had been raped. In fact, she had taken over as the district attorney about two weeks prior to the new year.

  What had impressed me about her was that she was a young black woman who seemed to have it all. Probably because she was a black woman, I was able to identify with her. More than just her being black, I was able to connect with Ms. Boswell because she gave off this radiant, powerful energy that I wanted to possess. She was gorgeous and she reminded me a lot of the former Miss America Vanessa Williams. Ms. Bowell had this way about her that whenever I was in her presence or spoke to her she would make me feel like I was the most important person in the world and the only thing that mattered to her at the moment.

  Out of the genuine and pure kindness of her heart she had called me when she took over as district attorney and invited me down to her office so she could meet me and talk to me and, as she put it, get to know me. Even after that initial meeting she had invited me back to her office so that she and I could go out to lunch together, her treat.

  At that lunch I remember asking her, “Ms. Boswell, out of all the cases that your office is handling, why did you choose to call me and treat me to lunch and all of that? You do this with everybody?”

  Ms. Boswell cracked a smile and she looked at me.

  “First off, you gotta stop calling me Ms. Boswell. You’re making me feel old. I’m only thirty-seven. Jeez. Call me Andrea, okay?” she said in a joking way.

  I smiled and nodded my head.

  “Honestly, God put it on my heart to call you. I mean, I had heard about your case prior to me taking over as the district attorney. When I came in I wanted to familiarize myself with all of the cases and you just became a priority to me.”

  “But why?”

  She smiled again.

  “Because, I wanted to see if I would see some of me in you.”

  “What?” I asked as she had confused the heck outta me.

  “See, when I was young like you are, eighteen, nineteen, twenty years old, you couldn’t have called anyone who knew me and convinced them otherwise that I wasn’t gonna end up with a bunch of kids by a bunch of different men, be on welfare, and probably strung out on drugs if I didn’t get killed or ended up in jail first.”

  “Really?” I said as I took a sip of my Sprite.

  “Really.”

  I looked at Ms. Boswell and saw how stunningly beautiful she was. I told her that she looked like what every black woman probably strives to look like.

  She smiled and then she told me, “It wasn’t always like this.”

  She went on to tell me that she could sense in my spirit that she and I were similar in many ways and that she wouldn’t be able to confirm that until I allowed her to get to know me.

  I just looked at her and didn’t say anything.

  “But, you know what? You probably won’t allow me, or anyone else for that matter, to get to really know you because you don’t trust anyone.”

  I sipped on my Sprite again and I didn’t say anything. Nor did Ms. Boswell force me to say anything.

  “Shayla, I’m old enough to be your mom, I know that. In fact, I have a son and a daughter who are twenty and twenty-one. But I still want to be your friend if that’s okay.”

  I shook my head and put a forkful of food into my mouth and I smiled.

  “Why?” I asked her through my food-filled smile.

  She simply started to open up about herself and she began telling me how she had gotten pregnant at sixteen and then again at seventeen. She had dropped out of high school and she was living so wild and misguided that the state took her kids from her when they were babies because she was endangering their welfare. She went on to tell me how she had had numerous abortions and had experimented with drugs and sex before getting hooked on drugs and all kinds of stuff that I would have never believed.

  At one point I wanted to just sit there with my mouth wide open and stare at her in amazement.

  “So how did you become a district attorney if you been through all of that?”

  “I straightened myself out and I worked my ass off,” Ms. Boswell said.

  She then went on to explain that the social worker who had taken her kids away from her had practically stalked her in order to befriend her. She said that the social worker saw something in her that had substance and quality and she was determined to be a part of Ms. Boswell’s life until she could see and value that substance and quality.

  “I owe everything to that social worker and to God. There were a whole lot of things in between that I had to do in order to develop the discipline to become a better me. But the thing that I know is that I wouldn’t have been able to get to
where I’m at if I didn’t have someone who believed in me enough to not give up on me.”

  “Wow,” I replied.

  We continued to talk and eat and before we were ready to leave she said, “Shayla, you know what’s funny? I send people to prison every day but nine out of ten times, those people who I send to prison are already in prison.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is that, all prisons are not made of bars of steel and concrete. The biggest prisons are the prisons of our minds. If people could just escape or free themselves from that prison that is in their minds then they would more than likely never end up in jail in the first place. The physical jails and prisons just become an extension and a continuation of what they were already experiencing mentally.”

  I looked at Ms. Boswell in amazement. It was like she was some kind of goddess or something with all of this knowledge, perception, and deep insight.

  “Until I freed myself from that mental prison that I was in, my life didn’t change and it wouldn’t have changed. I didn’t get out of that prison until I started opening up and letting that social worker really get to know me. She knew me like I know you, but she didn’t know Andrea just like I don’t know Shayla.”

  I sighed and I looked at her but I didn’t say anything. What I was thinking was that I don’t let anyone get to know me because I don’t wanna be vulnerable to anyone.

  That was when she interrupted my thoughts, took out her card, scribbled down her cell phone number and her home phone number, and told me to call her at anytime and for anything.

  So there I was on the night that the New Year had rung in. I was in a complete state of hot-messness and I found myself on my hands and knees dialing Ms. Boswell’s cell phone number.

  “District Attorney Boswell speaking,” she answered after three rings.

  “Hello,” I softly spoke into the phone.

  “Yes, this is Ms. Boswell, who’s speaking?”

  “Ms. Boswell, this is Shayla.”

  “Hey Shayla. Happy New Year, girl,” she spoke with a perky voice that had switched from businesslike to a friendly tone.

  “I’m sorry to bother you on New Year’s eve and all that. But I really need to speak to you.”

  Right after saying that, I coughed and threw up again right there on my living room floor.

  “Shayla. Hello? Shayla, you okay?”

  I paused and wiped my mouth and I told her that I wasn’t okay and that I was feeing depressed and had had too much to drink.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at home.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yeah. I called you ’cause I just feel like killing myself,” I said as tears began to well up in my eyes.

  “Shayla, what’s wrong, sweetie?”

  “Everything is wrong,” I replied.

  “Listen, give me your address,” she stated to me.

  I softly spoke my address into the phone. Ms. Boswell took it down and she told me that she was gonna leave the function that she was at and come over to see me. She wanted me to stay on the phone with her until she got there.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  “Shayla, I know that, but I want to do it.”

  When she said that, I could hear a slight sniffle sound as if she was crying.

  “You gonna come now?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m on my way. Listen, nothing is that bad. It may appear that way, but trust me, it’s not. I want you to remember what I’m gonna say,” she said. I could tell that she was clearly crying at this point. She continued on: “Killing yourself is just a horrible long-term solution to a short-term problem and all problems can be solved, baby.”

  I paused and didn’t say anything. I reached for my remote control and I turned off the television because I was tired of seeing happy white people celebrating the New Year.

  “Can you promise me something?” I asked as I too began to cry.

  “Anything, what is it?” Ms. Boswell quickly said.

  “If I tell you some stuff ... it’s not good stuff, though. Can you promise me that you won’t stop speaking to me?”

  “Shayla, listen to me, sweetie—”

  I cut her off while she was talking and through hyperventilating-type of crying, I added, “I mean, like ’cause with your job and all, you may not be able to speak to me anymore.”

  “Baby, there is nothing—and I mean nothing—that you could tell me that would make me stop speaking to you. I’ll always tell you the truth and you may not like the truth, but I will always be your friend. Remember, Shayla, I told you the worst about me, and I can tell you more about me that would really make your head spin, and yet you still called me tonight, right? You did that because we’re friends. Friends are only true friends when they know the worst about you and they still choose to be your friend.”

  “Okay,” I said to her.

  She continued to talk to me as she drove in her Acura Legend from Harlem toward Queens.

  I felt physically horrible from the liquor but mentally I felt even worse. One thing was for sure and that was that I was more than ready to let myself out of that mental prison that I was in.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Mom

  Ms. Boswell got to my apartment in about a half an hour.

  “Hey sweetie,” she said to me when I opened the door.

  “Hey,” I replied. I was still feeling horrible but her presence had made me start to feel a little bit better.

  “Ms. Boswell, I’m sorry that I got you here on New Year’s eve like this.”

  “Andrea. Shayla, my name is Andrea and that’s what I want you to call me. Okay?”

  Andrea walked up to me and she attempted to give me a hug but I stopped her because of my filthy, vomit-stained shirt.

  “Girl, you better give me a hug!” Andrea said as she grabbed me and just held me close to her.

  I felt like a little baby and I just wanted to melt in her arms. What’s funny is that while she held me she didn’t say a word. Immediately my mind started to wonder just what was Andrea’s true intentions. Oh my God, Ms. Boswell is a lesbian! I thought. She came over here so she could try and get with me sexually.

  I wanted to pull back from her, but truth be told, had she made a sexual pass at me and tried to take it somewhere sexually, I know that I would have went along with it. That’s just how twisted and confused my mind was.

  After about two minutes or so Andrea loosened her hug and she told me that what she wanted me to do was to go take a shower and clean myself up and to go to sleep.

  “Go to sleep?” I asked.

  “Yup. That’s what you need right now. I want you to go to sleep and sleep off what you drank and let your body reenergize itself.”

  “So you’re gonna leave?” I asked with a disappointed tone.

  “No. What I’m gonna do, if it’s okay with you, is I’m gonna clean up that mess over there that you made, I’m gonna fall asleep right there on that sofa and when we wake up I’m gonna chill with you and we’ll hang out and talk.”

  I frowned and tilted my head while I looked at her.

  “Are you for real?”

  “Yes, I’m for real.”

  The way that Andrea said that she was gonna chill with me was a perfect example of just why I connected with her and why I was so fascinated with her. She was this highly educated, powerful woman, yet she talked the way I talked and used words like gonna and chill, and that helped me relate to her.

  So I went along with Andrea’s plan and I did as she said. I took a nice, hot shower and went straight to my bed. My bed had never felt so good.

  By the time ten o’clock that next morning rolled in, I opened my eyes and I continued to lay in my bed. My stomach was still a little queasy but my headache had disappeared. I listened and I could hear the sound of the TV coming from the living room. I could tell that Andrea was still there because it sounded as if she was changing channels.

  Although I
wanted to get up, I was still not feeling at my best so I closed my eyes and went back to sleep. Finally, at around one o’clock I fully woke up and got out of my bed. I put on my robe and I walked to the living room and greeted Andrea.

  “Happy New Year,” I said with a smile plastered across my face.

  “Happy New Year to you too. Did you sleep good?”

  “Definitely, and I feel a whole lot better too.”

  Andrea smiled as she got up and walked to my kitchen. I followed behind her.

  “You’re good, ‘cause back in the days I would have to sleep until five o’clock in the evening in order to recover from my hangovers.”

  “Really?” I smiled and said as I sat at my kitchen table.

  Andrea nodded and she informed me that she was gonna cook us some pancakes.

  “So talk to me,” she said. “Tell me anything. Matter of fact, just tell me the first thing that comes to your mind. Don’t worry about what I’ll think.”

  I paused for a moment and then I almost spit out my orange juice because I started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Andrea asked.

  “You said to tell you anything, right?”

  Andrea looked at me and nodded.

  “Okay, well, honestly, what’s running through my head right now—and the same thought popped into my head last night before I went to sleep. I just can’t help it but something keeps saying to me that you’re a lesbian and you’re only being this nice to me and coming over here like you did and all of that because you wanna get with me sexually.”

  Andrea looked at me and she started to laugh.

  “Okay. Okay. That’s good. It’s funny and not true but it’s good that you told me that. You’re being honest and I like that.”

  I was getting ready to say something else but Andrea cut me off and she said, “But you don’t have to worry about that because trust me, I’m strictly-dickly.”

  We both fell out laughing after she said that.