Crash Into Me

by Liz Seccuro

  By January, Alice had left for good, to get married. My friend Caroline, whose own roommate had gone home with psychological issues, moved in with me. By that time, I was glad for the camaraderie of a roommate.

  At the beginning of the school year, going to class was a celebration in itself. We woke up early, got dressed up in filmy sundresses and sandals with gold shrimp earrings and pearls or add-a-bead-necklaces. (As the weather got colder, we transitioned to fresh jeans and furry Benetton sweaters, with leather flats.) After dressing, we would march to Newcomb Hall for breakfast. The dining hall breakfast spread consisted of coffee, muffins, eggs, bacon, grits, all manner of cold cereals, fruits and juices, waffles, French toast, and pancakes. We all sat at tables with our new dorm friends, and if we could not find a familiar face, we would take books and notebooks out of our Kenya bags and pretend to study until someone sat with us.

  After a class or two, most students gathered at the Greek amphitheatre in the center of Grounds, mere steps from the fabled Lawn, to study and sunbathe. Tank-top straps would slide off slender shoulders, skirts would be hiked up to the knees, and baby oil would be applied. And in the early part of the semester, thick, creamy envelopes would be waiting for us back at the girls’ dorms: formal invitations to fraternity houses each week to hear bands, enjoy a theme party, or imbibe cocktails. Clearly, these invitations were extended on the basis of our looks alone, determined largely from our photographs in the First Year Facebook, a printed freshman register that was a standard feature of college use before the online social networking site students rely on now. It was a curious time—the careful wardrobe planning, the ablutions, the hair and makeup. But so much seemed to depend on it at the start of college, when anything seemed possible.

  Even now, every autumn, no matter where I am, I remember the beauty and the thrill of Virginia in the fall—the gorgeous Grounds and the impossibly crisp air. To stand in the shadow of the Rotunda under the golden trees of the Lawn was a near-perfect feeling. The Lawn in autumn is perhaps the most hopeful place in the world, and it is what I choose to think about when I remember the university.

  CHAPTER 3 Darkness on Madison Lane

  On Thursday, October 5, 1984, I was enjoying a relaxing evening at my dorm, joking with friends, studying and eating pizza ordered from College Inn, the venerable institution of red sauce Italian and gyros that was a staple of university students’ diets. I needed to complete a great deal of reading for the following week. I was planning to declare an English major, so reading would be a big part of my college years. I was exhausted, but having a great time with friends, watching some get ready to go out, some gearing up to watch Late Night with David Letterman in the common area of the dorm. We lolled about in the carpeted hallways, me in mint green sweatpants and a navy T-shirt, in bare feet. It was a balmy evening with the promise of a chill in the air overnight. It was a typical Thursday night. Around ten P.M., one of my friends, Jim Long from Nashville, came bounding onto my floor in search of me.

  “Hey, Liz!” he exclaimed in his joyous, deep southern twang. “Wanna go to a rush party with me? It’s at Phi Psi, you know, the big house at the end of the Bowl! I’ve gotta have a date, you know!” It wasn’t a romantic invitation—Jim was gay. I didn’t want to go anywhere, much less a house I had never been to where I wasn’t sure if I would know anyone. Jim assured me that some other kids from our dorm were going as well. But I didn’t want to go; I was already ensconced.

  “Oh, hell no, Jim—look at me! I mean, I’m settled in for the night and I have tons of reading to get under my belt. I’m sure one of the other girls will go.” I gestured down the long hallway, filled with girls studying, eating, or putting on makeup.

  I was sympathetic—Jim was right that he needed a date. During rush season for the guys, any man who seemed gay had better bring a girl on his arm or risk being blackballed by any number of houses. There were a few gay-only houses, but many gays didn’t want to join for fear of being stigmatized. This was the early 1980s, after all. It was important for many young men to be able to pass as straight, although to me, Jim was quite obviously gay. Having studied ballet for so many years, I had known openly gay instructors, and it was fine by me. But I understood how hard it could be, especially for a college freshman. And rush was already a stressful process. After much southern charm and cajoling on his part, I relented. Jim was a friend, and I wanted to help. I trotted off to the communal bathroom with my makeup basket to put myself together. Once I had carefully applied some mascara and lipstick, I padded back to my room and got dressed. I put on a long-sleeved cotton crew-neck sweater of aqua, pink, yellow, and white squares, a Guess denim skirt, and a pair of navy leather flats. A strand of pearls and matching earrings completed my ensemble, along with a navy blue reversible Bermuda bag with wooden handles, so popular among the preppy set, which held my student identification card, room key, lipstick, small comb, and a bit of cash. Folding my sweats neatly on my bed and stacking my work on my desk, I bid good-bye to my friends and headed to the party with Jim and a few of the others from my dorm, including a pretty blonde girl named Cricket and her date. As we walked down Rugby Road, the redolent scent of Virginia dirt commingled with the sickening odor of the gingko tree berries and the stale beer stench that permanently wafted down the street lined by fraternity houses.

  The Phi Kappa Psi house was a massive Georgian pile of bricks on Madison Lane, off Rugby Road, standing directly across from the Rotunda. It was lit up like a Christmas tree, music was blaring, and we could see revelers gathered with cups of beer on the porch and dancing in the large rooms inside. The party was in full swing.

  I recognized a casual friend, Hudson Millard, a fifth-year resident adviser, working the door that night. Short, dark-haired, and affable, he greeted us happily. “Hud” was known by the younger students as a responsible and respectable guy who was always there with a ready ear to listen or advice to give if we needed it. He waved our group in and we entered the main rooms of the first floor of Phi Psi. To the left, foosball and music, keg beer, and casual dancing were the main attractions. To the right, brothers and partygoers were gathered around a large round table playing quarters, the beer-drinking game, and a small staircase led up to the house kitchen. To the far left was a large, dark room filled with leather sofas and armchairs with composite photographs of the brothers hanging over the massive fireplace mantels. Here, some couples cuddled, oblivious to the din of revelers and blasting music. Still tired and feeling a bit self-conscious in such a big crowd, I tried to rally and get into the spirit of the party. We all approached one of the many kegs and Jim poured a beer for each of us into those large, red plastic cups that are still a fixture at college parties today. We tried to figure out who was a brother at the house. Those were the people Jim would need to talk to if he wanted to gain entry to the next round of parties and, eventually, the brotherhood itself.

  Feeling awkward, we sipped on our beers and staked our claim on the foosball table. I set my red cup of beer down on the windowsill and lamely attempted a game or two with Jim and some of our friends, jamming the levers of the table. Clearly, foosball was not my best game.

  At one point, a few of the brothers came up to introduce themselves as members of Phi Psi, and chatted with Jim about his rush ambitions. A couple of them asked if our group, which included Cricket and her friend, would enjoy a house tour, explaining that it was traditional during rush to show prospective members what the house looked like. We agreed and carefully climbed the grand staircase in a group to the second floor. That floor had a large living room, a rumpus room that was set with furniture, a bar, and some music blaring from a stereo. Revelers moved in and out of the room as the brothers showed us the common areas and some of the bedrooms, which clearly had recently been cleaned for such tours. The bedrooms were spacious, most decorated with Oriental rugs and bookshelves, some with the Confederate flag tacked to the ceiling. Jim seemed excited to be shown around and was chatting animatedly to the brothers who
came and went. I simply stood next to him, smiling. I had an early class, and hoped this wouldn’t take much longer. At one point, I realized I had emptied my red beer cup and I refilled it from a keg on that floor, trying to look busy and sociable.

  Back in the main room on the second floor, a small group of brothers approached us.

  “Hey, y’all want to go smoke some?” asked one.

  Jim looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as if to say yes. I didn’t know he smoked. Jim leaned in and said, “They have pot.” Ohhhh … that kind of smoking.

  I had never smoked marijuana in my life and didn’t want to start that day, so I told Jim I’d be fine staying in the common room. I was tired, but didn’t want to walk home alone. How long could it take to smoke pot? “Good luck,” I said. He assured me that he would be back quickly.

  I watched them amble down to another room, enter it, and close the door. So there I stood.

  Hud Millard was in the room at this point, and I saw some people I knew from my dorm, so I felt comfortable. At a party this large, it was easy to lose track of the people I knew, so I decided to stay where I was. Aimlessly, I walked around the room and found a place to sit in the crowd, on a sofa near the bar. Two of the brothers behind the bar acknowledged me with a greeting and seemed to be checking me out. They looked identical in their rumpled preppy threads and puffed-out-chest bravado. I had zero interest, but I was bored and didn’t want to seem rude. They seemed harmless.

  “You waiting on a friend?” asked one.

  “Yes … it’s time for me to go home. He’s in the back, smoking with some of your brothers.”

  “Well, cool. We made some punch. It’s called the ‘house special.’ Would you like one?”

  I hesitated. I still had the second beer on the floor next to me and didn’t want to drink more. I was anxious to get home. But I didn’t want to seem like a loser, either. I figured one more drink couldn’t hurt. One of the men put a pale green drink in a small, clear plastic tumbler on the counter and pointed at it, gesturing for me to take it. I sipped at it. It was very tart, yet sweet and tasted citrusy, like lime candy. My other friends were coming and going, and I sat down again and chatted with some people who looked familiar. What happened from there is a blur, but I remember some of the events in clear resolution, as if it were a motion picture. The mystery cocktail began to affect me suddenly: I began to feel lightheaded, nauseated, and dizzy. I was sitting in the common area trying to keep it together, but the drink had taken its hold and I was blacking out, awake but unaware or unable to remember what was going on. I lost track of time and I was scared. I remember talking with Hud, and I became aware of a very tall, owlish young man trying to insinuate himself into the conversation with chuckles and brief remarks. He had a large head, dark hair, and eyeglasses, which lent him a studious but slightly sinister look. He was staring at me and began slowly inching his way closer. No one was paying that much attention to him. Soon, Hud excused himself and this odd man began talking to me in earnest.

  “Hi, I’m Will. What’s your name?”

  “Liz,” I said. I was scanning the room, deliberately looking disinterested. I was foggy and I really had no interest in this stranger. There was a weird vibe about him. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. Everything was in slow motion.

  “Are you a first year?”

  “Yes.”

  “First time at Phi Psi? I’m a brother here. I’m a second year English major.”

  “That’s great.” Of course, I wanted to be an English major as well—a shared interest—but I didn’t feel like engaging with him.

  He said he wanted to show me something. I was not interested. At this point, Hud returned and was visibly intoxicated, or perhaps under the influence of drugs. I was alarmed that in such a short time he had become so obviously impaired. Had he had the green drink, too? He was a responsible man and this did not seem at all characteristic. Another brother came and dragged him into a room, the room where I had put my Bermuda bag for safekeeping earlier. The brother stepped outside of the room, turned, and padlocked the door from the outside. How would Hud get out? Why would someone lock their friend inside a room? Nothing made sense, and I was getting nervous. The room was getting blurry and my limbs were not moving as they should. I felt like a marionette, and it was difficult to stand up on my own. It was most certainly time to head home. I desperately wanted to leave, but the thought hit me: “I can’t walk home alone. I don’t even think I can walk, period.”

  I tried to remain calm. Surely Jim would be back for me soon. So I cooled my heels, trying to act normal. I inquired around the room about Jim’s whereabouts, only to be told several times, in so many ways, “Oh, he’ll be back soon. Just hang out here and he’ll be back to walk you home.” I sat and waited. My breathing felt shallow and a little panicky. What was in that drink?

  Again, the tall man appeared at my side. Talking, leaning in, and whispering. Again, I shrugged him off, reiterating that I was waiting for my friend and that I would be going home soon, as I had an early class to attend. I shifted on the couch, twisting away and searching for someone, anyone that I knew. No one looked familiar. Then, he took me by the hand and lifted me off the couch.

  The young man began to yank me toward a room, telling me he wanted to show me something.

  “No. Really, I don’t want to see whatever it is. I’m fine here. Let me go back.” “No, you’ll like it!” he insisted. Pulling. Dragging. In the room, he grabbed a slender volume covered in green fabric from a nearby table, sat in a chair, and pulled me onto his lap with his arms locked around my waist. As I struggled to get free, he began to read poetry to me, and then to lick the area behind my ear. I pulled away, repulsed. I had done nothing to indicate I was at all interested in this person. “Hey, let me go!” I said with a forced smile. But I was serious and more than a little frightened.

  He tightened his grip on me and told me to relax, but I broke free and ran to the room where Hud was locked in. I pounded on that door, screaming with all my might and kicking the door. It seemed like I was at that door, scraping and kicking and screaming for hours. It may only have been a minute or two. One of the brothers from behind the bar came up to me and yelled at me to shut up. The music suddenly got louder in the room and my protests were drowned out. This brother was extraordinarily tall, wearing a plaid flannel shirt and a navy and orange Virginia baseball cap. He picked me up like a sack of autumn leaves, threw me over his shoulder, and shoved me back into the room, depositing me into the waiting arms of the poetry-reading weirdo. He gave a high five to another brother. I screamed.

  The door was slammed shut loudly and the lights were cut. I swam in total blackness and could not stand on my own. Someone was holding me up and ripping my clothes off roughly, restraining me first by one arm, then the other. My sweater was stretched over my head, my skirt unzipped and roughly shoved down to the floor. My white cotton bra was unhooked and my matching white panties yanked down over my knees, which caused me to fall. I was wildly shaking my head and flailing. Horror washed over me. I had never been naked in front of anyone in my life. At that point, I was shoved roughly onto the bed. I could hear him unzip his pants as he covered my mouth with his hand, hissing “Bitch, shut up.” He sat down on my thighs so that I couldn’t move my legs and the pain was intense. I realized I was still wearing my shoes. I was able to bend my knees at an outward angle at one point and kick him in the back with my hard wooden soles. My assailant yelped in pain and moved farther down on my legs, sitting on my shins now to stop the assault of my kicks. Rubbing his hands over my breasts, he tried to fondle me as I twisted away from his grasp, batting his hands away as best I could. He quickly pinned down my arms with his forearm. Panicking, I could hear myself panting and gasping for breath. I screamed again, but don’t think any sound escaped my mouth.

  The assailant was still fully clothed from the waist up, with his pants pulled down around his ankles, from what I could feel. I could feel his bare, sweaty thighs on
me. He tried to force his penis inside me, but I was a virgin, and he was struggling. He took his hand and shoved it inside me. I screamed “No” repeatedly. My heart was racing and my mouth ran dry. He stank. He rammed himself inside me as he squeezed my arms and put all of his body weight on me. I turned my head swiftly back and forth to avoid his mouth. Looking out the window to my left, I could see revelers on Madison Lane under the blue-white glow of the street lamp. With each thrust, my head was slammed into the headboard or wall behind me; when I tried to lift my head, my cheekbone was smashed into the same surface. He grunted on top of me as I tried to lock my legs together and fight him off. “Please, no,” I begged. “Stop!”

  Despite my screams, he held me down and thrust into me repeatedly. I thought I was going to die in this filth. During the act, I heard doors opening and shutting and could see lights—maybe someone would help me. At one point, with horror, I sensed others in the room. I heard shouts and excited voices. But within a split second, my mind went dark again. All I could feel was something warm and wet gushing between my legs. I tried to focus on thoughts of my family and of God. Then, with a wash of pain, I passed out.

  In the dark hours of that night, I remember feeling movement around the room, and remember being jostled. Was I being moved? Was I being raped again? I could feel something underneath me and the sensation of dragging, but I could not open my eyes or speak. I have flashbacks of hearing a shower running and feeling water on my back. Cold tile under my face. Time standing still and me not being able to move.