A Newsgirl Finds Love

I was reading the newspaper the other day and read a
story about a girl near my age and a man who were involved
with each other. Somehow they were found out and the man got
into terrible trouble. Because of my experiences, I feel like
I have a good idea of what might have happened, and I am
fairly sure that just as both were involved, both were to
blame. To me the sadness is not in what they did, but in
what happened when they were discovered.

If their relationship ran anything like the one I
literally fell into, things had to have been better than was
speculated about in the paper. The paper had him taking
advantage of her and implied that she got nothing out of their
relationship at all and that she was exploited. He received
full blame, and even though she wouldn’t testify, he is
apparently in real deep trouble anyway. I hope he gets off.
My story shows that assumptions are not always true.

My story needs to be told, and I have tried to tell
it completely and in a way that will be interesting, and
instructive. Maybe even a little arousing. My choice may
not have been a wise one by conventional wisdom, but I’d
never have it any other way.

It all started when I was delivering papers one day,
and my dumb kid brother, who was following me as usual,
bumped me. I lost control of my bike and fell down real
hard. I skinned my knee and bumped my head. I was scared
and really feeling like I was badly hurt.

I was lying there, trying to keep from crying,
wondering if I had broken anything, when a man leaned over

He spoke softly and calmly, touching me here and
there, explaining what he was doing as he did it. I was
still dazed, when he declared that no bones were broken.
He picked me up and carried me up to the front porch
of a house I later found out was his home.

He told my brother to park his bike on the sidewalk
out front and then made him go back and get mine and bring
it up too.

While my brother was doing this, he was drying my
tears and giving me a more through checkup. He looked in
my eyes with a flashlight, checked my ears, felt around the
lump on my head so gently that even though I knew he was
doing it I never felt any pain at all. Then just as my
brother arrived on the porch, he pointed out that blood was
soaking through the knee of my new jeans.

I was upset anyway and I started crying. He told me
to never mind, that he’d take care of that and fix my knee,
too. He picked me up and took me inside, ordering my brother
to wait outside and watch the bicycles unless he was called.

He put me on the couch and told me to take off my
pants. He spoke so calmly and matter of factly and with
such sureness and authority that I did as he said immediately
with no thought of questioning the rightness of it. He took
a gauze patch out of a medical kit that he took from a closet,
put something on it, put the patch on my knee and had me hold
it in place. He took my pants away and was gone a few minutes.
Later I found that he had washed them out in cold water to
remove the bloodstains and put them in the dryer.

When he came back, he took off the gauze patch and
cleaned out the wound with more gauze patches and some liquid.
Then he put ointment on another patch, covered the wound and
taped up my knee with some kind of tape he described as a
special athletic stretch tape.

Then he put a pillow out, laid my head on it, and
spend a few minutes talking to me. He asked me about myself,
but he talked about himself in turn. I learned that he had
been an athletic trainer, but had quit because although he
liked the work he hadn’t liked the pressure he had to work
under or the methods that he had to use. While we were
talking he explained that it was most important that I relax,
because the way I healed would be affected by how my body
reacted and was treated in the next hour or so.

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