That evening, when we were alone in his room, Elvis asked me if anything was wrong. My voice was trembling. I could hardly get the words out. When I finally did tell him, Elvis went berserk. “I’m going to kill him,” he shouted. He paced the floor, cursing Kurt. I was his little girl, Elvis said, and he had never gone all the way with me. Now this other guy, this so-called friend of his, had tried to rape me. I listened as he shouted, secretly relieved at his response. How could I ever have doubted Elvis?
