I never did see at the time, nor do I have any recollection of today in 2022, coming up 39 years after our fight in Mrs Harris's living room, the left hook from Donna that completely knocked me cold, and sent my sister and I back home from Mrs Harris's with our tails between our legs.
No sooner did we get back to the semi-safety of our bedrooms than our Mom got back from Albany, madder than nest of hornets. Mr Harris couldn't afford to let the scandal of he and Mrs Harris taking Donna into their home and having nightly (and daily) threesomes with her get out into the public -- that would have put an ignominious end to the Fleet-Norstar merger, and cost him and both banks' management and shareholders hundreds of millions of dollars.
So Mr Harris agreed to cooperate with the police, and the School Committee of Mrs Harris's district, on providing details or her manipulation of my life and Donna's while we were still under her authority the final semester of high school. Today, her story would have been all over the internet and television. But back in 1983, newspapers controlled what the public heard and saw, and our school district decided they couldn't handle the reputational damage of Mrs Harris's case. So, Mrs Harris agreed to exit the education profession, and separately settled with my family in return for a nondisclosure agreement from all of us.
Since Mr and Mrs Harris were getting divorced, they couldn't afford to settle with us in cash. So they paid off the mortgage on their huge Colonial Revival house, (and repaired the master shower door), and gave the keys to my mother. My mom, my sister, and I sold our rapidly-dilipidating raised ranch, and moved into Mrs Harris's old house.
The house I'd been wanting as my own.
And which became mine, with my sister, when my Mom retired to Melbourne, Florida 6 months later. She married a new man and never looked back. She didn't care to continue a relationship with my sister or me after Cara (soon to become Cara Harris) told her all the details about my (our) spring (and summer) of sexual depravity.
Which was just as well for everyone.
Because I wasn't ready, just yet, to give up my new-found lifestyle with my sister. We cut back our 1on1 time with each other--after one or two more months of mutual exploration--but we continued, and stepped into overdrive, our 2on1 relationship with a man we began sharing our house with, a tough Rhode Island biker named Jonah. Jonah was always ready to do it--his veins must have run on Viagra, not blood--and had never been able to find a woman to keep up with him.
So he found two. My sister and me.
And once my sister got her high school degree the next spring, with neither of us having .... or needing .... a job (we lived off of Mr Harris's Fleet Norstar stock and Jonah's money dealing drugs), we just had sex all the time. Over and over, Anne-Jonah, Lisa-Jonah, Anne-Jonah-Lisa.
And, when that got boring, Jonah would bring home a biker chick for Lisa or me to catfight, depending on who she matched up better with.
I can thank you for that, Mrs Harris, you bitch, if you're out there reading this.
You taught me that it's all about the matchup.
But you did get one thing wrong in the yearbook that year.
The best catfight matchup in our school in 1982-83 wasn't Anne vs Donna.
It was Anne vs Mrs Harris.
But I think you already know that.
Don't you, bitch?
THE END
