THE FIRST GIRL I EVER LOVED

The first girl I ever loved was not pretty. Not even remotely. She was extremely tall and lanky, and her ears protruded from her head like the handles on a trophy. Her eyes were diminutive, secretive pits hidden beneath a heavy brow. And her nose was long and broad like that of a puppy. Though I was far from impressed with her visage, we were both embarrassments to our peers and came from your typical poor white trash families, giving us more than enough in common to facilitate a friendship.
My father and her stepfather rummaged through garbage dumps hidden deep within the woods like elephant graveyards, looking for discarded antiques to refurbish and auction off. I could never understand their friendship beyond their love of antiques and quick cash. Her stepfather resembled the future corpse of Jerry Lee Lewis, minus half his teeth. He carried with him the pervasive odor of sweat, tobacco and a prison record. Although I'd never considered my dad an Errol Flynn by any standards, next to his buddy he certainly came close.
Though it wasn't love at first sight, we certainly became friends quickly enough. We traversed the wilderness surrounding her home, excited when we stumbled upon a creek, an animal, an old family graveyard or even the bleached bones of some unidentifiable beast. Everything we did was an adventure, or at least a whole lot of fun. She was quite the tomboy and thought nothing of scurrying up a tree with me, or even falling out of it alongside me. She taught me how to play poker with broken crayons as chips. I think I only won once.
As we spent more time together, I noticed my reactions to her becoming suspect. I'd blush when she'd say something nice about me or scoot closer to her when we sat on her steps or her porch swing. I found it embarrassing. How could spending time with such an unattractive girl create such a squirrely feeling in my stomach? How could I even consider holding her hand or grazing her lips with mine? Part of me was disgusted, and that part spoke the loudest.
After spending a Saturday afternoon with her, I spent the following Sunday thinking about my dilemma. After tiring of chastising myself for having fallen for such a wallflower, it occurred to me that maybe she wasn't so bad. Maybe what was more important was how much I enjoyed her company and how happy we made each other. This seemed to make a lot of sense, far more than hating myself for newfound feelings. After serious consideration, I decided to ask her to be my girlfriend as soon as I saw her Monday morning at school. The anticipation made me happy and sick simultaneously.
The next day I had trouble finding her. I checked her classes and peered through the sea of children, looking for her long and lanky body, her ears that stuck out from her head like trophy handles, her broad, puppy-like nose and everything else about her I'd come to love so much. Somehow, I never found her. I shuffled on to my fourth period class. My teacher stood by the door to steer all the tiny ruffians through the opening with her ferocious gaze and wandering eye. I asked her if she'd seen my friend, and she quickly took me aside.
It seems that Sunday evening, while I beamed over my decision to profess my feelings to her, her stepfather took it upon himself to get her drunk and rape her. The news sat in my stomach like concrete. My love had been defiled and taken away, and I never had the chance to tell her anything. I don't remember what happened over the course of the day or the remainder of that week. I never saw her again.
At times, though it was roughly 20 years ago, I still feel guilty for not saying anything to her and not preventing what happened, as though I could have. Most of all, I feel bad that I don't remember her name.