Introducing Me

My name is Wendy Margaret Carter-Greene. I'm sixteen-years-old. If you recognize my name, it might be because you go to school with me. Or maybe you were one of the millions who watched the live broadcast of my Great-Aunt Peggy's funeral, where I delivered a speech and cried in front of Captain America. Maybe you know my parents, Dr. Rachel Carter-Greene and Theodore Carter-Greene, an executive at Oscorp Industries. Or maybe you've never heard of me or my family.

Well, get ready to hear my name a whole hell of a lot.

If you keep up with the news or follow @spideyupdates on Twitter like I do, you've probably heard or read all about one of Spider-Man's bigger captures; a group of frat boys from Sigma Kappa Nu who attempted to rape a girl. By now, the boys have been released due to lack of evidence and/or a lack of a victim. No details have been made public about the supposed victim.

In the police report, they probably call her Chloe, because that's the name she gave those frat boys. The report probably includes the fact that she was wearing a cheerleader's uniform for the Midtown Tigers. Maybe there's even a description of her. Blonde, short, tipsy...I wonder what words they put in her mouth.

In my mouth.

Hello, my name is Wendy Margaret Carter-Greene and I was harassed, assaulted, and nearly raped by Erik Chambers, Matthew Kingston, Chase Graziano, Thomas Schuetz, and Nathan Wallis.

I had to look up their names. I'm not used to them having names. Ever since that night, I'd been calling them NYU Sweatshirt (Matthew Kingston,) Shorter Letterman Jacket (Nathan Wallis,) Taller Letterman Jacket (Erik Chambers,) Graphic Tee (Thomas Schuetz,) and Polo Shirt (Chase Graziano.) A large part of me doesn't like putting names to nicknames and faces to names. I don't like acknowledging that they're real people with families and lives. It's almost easier to think of them as my demons, as the things of my nightmares.

I remember that night so clearly. I was cold and tipsy. I was on my way home from an after-party to celebrate the boys' basketball team's fourth consecutive win. My friends had offered to walk me home, but I wanted to be alone. I had a lot on my mind.

It was around two in the morning. I took a wrong turn and ended up walking down a street I didn't recognize. I just kept moving. I just wanted to get home. Then they surrounded me. They were clearly drunk. Their eyes glinted in the low light. I can recall everything they said. It's not hard considering their words have been replaying in my head ever since.

NYU Sweatshirt (Matthew Kingston) spoke first. "Look at her. She's a cheerleader." He'd laughed.

"I've had a really long day. I just wanna go home please," I'd said. I knew right off the bat that I was doomed. I'd been warned about men like them.

"Can we come with?" Shorter Letterman Jacket (Nathan Wallis) asked. Then they all laughed like it was so damn funny. I remember I folded my arms over my chest because I was freezing and I tried to rub my arms to create friction for some warmth.

That's when Graphic Tee - fuck, I mean Thomas Schuetz said, "Need some help warming up?"

"I'm good, I just wanna go home," I'd repeated because I read about something called the broken record method, which basically meant that if someone wasn't listening to you or your request, you repeat yourself until they get it. These boys got it, but they didn't care.

Graphic Tee (Thomas Scheutz! His name is Thomas Scheutz!) asked for my name ("What's your name, pretty lady?") and moved towards me so I stumbled back, closer to Taller Letterman Jacket - Erik Chambers. I lied and said my name was Chloe. It was the first name I could think of. My every instinct was telling me to lie to them. There was this voice at the back of my head screaming that if I gave them my real name, even if I left the situation alive, they would find me.

Polo Shirt - I'm sorry, Chase Graziano recognized the emblem on my uniform. He said, "Chloe the cheerleader. And you go to Midtown?" He was referring to, of course, Midtown School of Science and Technology.

That is indeed the school I attend, and so despite my better judgment, I replied, "Midtown High School, yes." What a dumb piece of shit I was. I thought maybe they thought I was their age, y'know? Maybe if they knew I was underaged they would leave me alone.

But they didn't.

Shorter Letterman - shit, I mean Nathan Wallis told me, "The girls weren't as hot as you when I was in high school," and his friends laughed because apparently hitting on a minor is fucking hilarious. He said, "I bet you're breaking all the boys' hearts."

Looking back on it, that line is kind of funny, because I only went to that after-party to get my mind off an annoying boy.

I forced some laughter and said, "Not really. I'm not allowed to date. Too young." Stupid, stupid Wendy. I want to scream at that memory of me that they don't give a fuck. No matter my age, they'd already decided what they wanted to do to me and I wouldn't be able to stop them.

"Young, inexperienced, hot," Polo Shirt - fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He is not Polo Shirt. He is Chase Graziano. He licked his lips and said, "You're just our type, Chloe. Maybe we can show you the ropes, right boys?"

Young, inexperienced, hot. You're just our type, Chloe. I think that line haunts me the most because it really leads me to believe that I am not the only one these boys have targeted. It makes me think that this is their thing, maybe even something they do on a regular basis. In some ways, it's oddly comforting to think there might be others out there who have experienced the same horrors as me. On the other hand, the thought of someone else having to endure what I went through makes me want to pull a Sylvia Plath if you catch my drift.

I was so fucking scared. "I should be getting home, my dad's probably worried sick." Oh God, my dad. I just realized he's almost definitely going to read this. He's going to read this and he's never going to look at me the same way. No one will.

My hands are shaking and my vision's blurring but I have to keep writing this because if I stop, I'll never finish.

Erik Chambers (I can't believe it, I can't believe I let myself make the correlation, I can't fucking believe it) didn't like me mentioning my dad. He grabbed me from behind and pulled me close. He shushed me and planted his face in the crook of my neck (I just gagged) and he said, just loud enough for all of his friends to hear, "Don't mention your dad, sweetheart. It's a buzz kill."

Well, sorry. Didn't mean to kill your raging rapist boner.

I thought that was the end. I thought I was going to die or be irreparably damaged. And then the universe decided to cut me some slack and we heard that wonderful, magical thwip! We heard it two or three times before he landed in the center of the circle that the frat boys had formed. That was the first time I saw his new suit.

The one and only friendly neighborhood Spider-Man had come to my rescue.

He quipped, "Well, this doesn't look consensual." I tried to run forward but Erik fucking Chambers refused to let go and I swear my arms popped out of their sockets.

Thomas Scheutz let out a chuckle and said, "We're just having a bit of fun. No problem here, Mr. Spider-Man."

I dug deep into myself and managed to plead, "Help me. Please." Spider-Man winked at me and promptly took care of the frat boys. Erik, Thomas, and Chase got webbed to the nearest brick wall. Nathan got stuck to a lamp post. Matthew was pinned on the sidewalk by a web. Then Spider-Man took me home and I haven't put on my cheerleader's uniform since. I've washed it maybe ten times now but it's still filthy.

I can still feel Erik's hands on me, his hot breath on my skin. Sometimes people say my name and I hear Chloe instead of Wendy. That gave me a panic attack the other day.

Before I wrap this up, I should probably add that some will claim I went looking for trouble. After all, I had just recently made a bet that I could become friends with Spider-Man. It's one of the reasons I've kept my mouth shut thus far. I know people will say I was asking for it, that I should not have been out that late, that I should've changed into more modest clothing. There will be people who will say I'm doing this for a shot at fame or to get attention. If you hear someone say that, I want you to ask them to name at least five of the sixty women who have made allegations of sexual assault against Bill Cosby. Do you know why people like Michael Fassbender and Woody Allen should be blocked from the industry?  Can you name any of the women who have accused Donald Trump of sexual assault?

Sexual harassment and assault are often associated with shame and secrecy. You speak up, you get torn down. Somehow it's always the victim's fault. I was physically assaulted and sexually harassed with the intent to rape. I know this, I lived this, and there's still a part of me that wants to justify these boys' actions. They were drunk, maybe they didn't hear me state my age, maybe they thought I was flirting with them, maybe they were raised in a sexist society full of toxic masculinity that teaches girls not to get raped instead of teaching boys not to rape.

(To be perfectly honest, I'm leaning towards that last one.)

But this happened. That night happened. No matter how much I try to forget, try to move on and suppress the damage it's done to me, it still fucking happened. And it's going to keep happening unless these boys - Nathan Wallis, Erik Chambers, Thomas Schuetz, Chase Graziano, Matthew Kingston - are put away. They need to be held responsible for their actions. They need to be taken off the streets. They need to be punished because no matter their state of mind or justification, what they did was wrong. Perhaps, most importantly, society needs an example of what happens when you attack women. Too often men get away with it. It's time for that to end. It doesn't matter if you're the president of a prestigious fraternity or a talented athlete or a loser or a "good guy" or someone with so much promise or a burnout - assault is a crime. It is illegal and therefore any perpetrators deserve to be punished.

And lastly, a paragraph for those who do know me - who call me 'best friend' or walk past me in the hall or work with my parents or have just done a research project on Agent Peggy Carter - I'm sorry. I'm sorry I kept my mouth shut. I'm sorry I tried to bury this and forget. I'm sorry I drifted away. I'm sorry I stopped going to cheer or talking about my day at the dinner table. I'm even sorry to you, Peter, that I made you get up on a table at lunch and recite a poem about me because even though I won that stupid fucking bet, I didn't really win, did I? I'm sorry, Ms. Creevy, who just wanted a simple essay about who we are and got a confession. And I'm sorry, Aunt Peggy, that I failed you. You taught me to be strong, to stand my ground and speak up for what I believe in, and instead, I hid, ashamed of what those frat boys had done to me.

And most of all, I'm sorry if these boys hurt you too. I'm sorry that I took so damn long to open my mouth. I'm sorry if the police ignored your case or maybe you never were in a place that you could report it. I'm sorry if you still have nightmares. I'm sorry if people label you a victim. We are not victims. We are survivors. I'm sorry if you can no longer trust men. I'm sorry if what they did to you led you to hurt or attempt to kill yourself.  I'm sorry that you didn't get a hero. I'm so fucking sorry.

*

Her dad was calling her. Dinner was ready. She copied and pasted the text into an email meant for every newspaper she could think of with the subject 'EXCLUSIVE VICTIM STATEMENT.' She maneuvered the cursor onto the bright blue 'Send' button. Her finger hovered over the touchpad. One tap and it'd send. She could still delete it or stick it in her drafts to rot there.

She glanced at her window, still open from Spider-Man's quick exit.

She clenched her jaw and slammed the pad of her finger down.

Sent.