Mal Biederman wasn’t Jewish, though her looks and surname would have had you thinking otherwise. She had olive skin, a pronounced nose and blue-grey eyes that leapt away from her face like a secret exposed. A more beguiling seventh grader was not to be found at East Junior High School. She got good grades, didn’t smoke or drink and was an eager member of the Fort Square United Presbyterian Church Youth Group. So was I.

Service to God and community weren’t the only things Mal and I had in common. Our parents were friends so we had a shorthand that wasn’t limited to Bake Sales and Bibles. We also had Bar-B-Q’s. On our frequent Youth Group ski trips Mal and I would ride in the back of the bus, telling sinful secrets about our fellow Youth Group members and giggling at our liberal use of the word “shit.” I was, suffice to say, deeply in love.

I can’t remember why I hated Youth Group so much. I hated it with a passion that most of my fellow Presbyterians reserved for Jesus. But the possibility of riding in that bus next to Mal, our Toughskins grazing, put me on the path to righteousness. If it hadn’t been for her I would never have started going in the first place.

Our Youth Group counselors were typical, or so I imagine, having no one else to compare them too. They were most likely grad students making their obligatory way though the New England educational circuit. Mary-Ann wore a small wooden cross that had been carved from the wood of a cypress tree “on the road to Damascus” and she had long, straight hair that she let grow past her belt. I had always been suspect of people that grew their hair that long. It was the equivalent of wearing a certain piece of signature clothing or giving yourself a nickname. Mary-Ann had desperate hair.

Kurt, her boyfriend, was our steadfast leader. He was tall and would waste no time getting his shirt off when the sun even threatened to warm his back above seventy-two degrees. He had a hard, wiry frame; top heavy, like a swimmer’s and his hands were like two – OH MY GOD HE MOLESTED ME! OH MY GOD! THAT FUCKING BASTARD! HE TOTALLY FUCKING MOLESTED ME!

OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! HE MOLESTED THE SHIT OUT OF ME!

Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhhh. Calm down. Calm down. If he had molested me I would have remembered it before now. Relax. Think of something el- OH MY GOD! HIS DIRTY FUCKING FINGERNAILS! OH JESUS, PLEASE. PLEASE! Let me forget. I want to forget again. I want to forget again. Please let me forget.

Why am I still writing? I should tell someone or call someone. My mother? No she would never forgive herself for sending me on those trips. Those trips! Oh God those endless trips! Those trips. Those trips. Those trips. Trips. Trips. Trips. Trips. Trips. Jesus fucking Christ! Snap out of it! Get back to the story. Just get back to the story. Find comfort in the story.

Okay. Here we go.

Mal was, of course, the most graceful skier in all of Protestantism. She was confidant and sure. Not thinking. Unblinking. It was as if she had Jesus’ hot breath on her back, blowing her down the slopes. His scorching hot breath. On her back. Blowing her and pushing her. Pushing and blowing. It was as if the snow was not snow at all but hot oil and her skis were strong hands working the mountain. Working the mountain. Working it and blowing it. Pushing…

OH FUCKING SHIT, I CAN’T! I FUCKING CAN’T. I’LL KILL HIM. I WILL FUCKING MURDER HIS HANDS AND HIS MOUTH WITH A HAMMER! Shhhhhhhhh. Back to the story. Bury it in the story. Oh my god…

Okay. Here we go.

So. Youth Group was very…religious. Mal and I would hang out together. She was religious. I wasn’t that religious. There were a lot of other kids my age. Some of them were religious. Some of them weren’t religious. I wonder if any of them were molested as well? OH GOD! So horrible! So Goddamn horrible! He said he was my friend! I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him. I’ll….

Shhhhhhh. Just stop writing. Stop writing and take a nap. Finish the story some other day. Take a long long nap. Maybe take a pill. Just stop writing! Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget.

Forget trying to tell my friends about Mal and I. They would never have believed me. She was too pretty and I was too awkward. Awkward and geeky. And stupid. So stupid. And fat. I’m such a fat fucking fatty. I hate my body. I HATE MY FAT FUCKING BODY!

I’m gonna go call my mother. Hold on.
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She wasn’t there. She’s never there. She’s never there when I need her. Where was she? Where were they? She wouldn’t believe me anyway. Who would believe me? Maybe I made it up.

I’m going to call my doctor and get something to help me sleep. He’ll give me something. I’ll just tell him I’m stressed out and having trouble sleeping. He knows me. He’s been my family doctor for years. He was my doctor when I was a kid. He’s always been my doctor. He was always so good to me. I remember that, when I was a child, he would warm his hands before examining - OH MY GOD HE MOLESTED ME TOO! OH MY GOD! THAT FUCKING BASTARD! HE TOTALLY FUCKING MOLESTED ME TOO! WHY WAS I SOOO MOLESTED ALL THE TIME?

OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! HE MOLESTED THE SHIT OUT OF ME TOO? WHO ELSE? HUH? MAYBE I WAS ASKING FOR IT. I’M SO FAT…

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.