Five years ago
“Where’ve you been.”
The sharp voice sounds in the utter darkness just after I shut the front door with a quiet thud. Gasping, I whirl around and the lamp clicks on, casting dirty yellowish light on my father, who’s sitting on the sagging couch, clad only in a stretched-out white T-shirt and a pair of faded boxers.
“Out.” I clear my throat when I hear the squeakiness of nerves.
He gives me that look, the one shrewd and full of distrust. “With who?”
“Friends.” A boy. One my father wouldn’t approve of, and that’s what makes him extra exciting. After the Burper—my first sexual experience—I found someone else to be with. We’re not in a real relationship or anything, we just like to fuck. His words.
He thinks I’m some sort of miracle girl brought down from the heavens.
“You sure you don’t want a boyfriend?” Nathaniel asked earlier, right after he was done with me in the backseat of his car. He’s seventeen, a senior, a bad boy, a smoker, a drinker, a fornicator. He is everything I am not, yet wish to be. And he’s recruiting me over to the dark side, slowly but surely.
“Positive,” I told him, my tone extra dry. And bored. Always bored. Boys get their rocks off and girls get a boy sweating and grunting while thrusting inside their body. This one doesn’t care about my pleasure, just like the Burper. “Got a cigarette?” I asked him when I noticed he was staring at my tits.
He eagerly handed it over, probably hopeful I’d give him a blowie or a hand job, but forget that. He got what he wanted. He wasn’t getting it twice.
“What friends?” Daddy asks, his vicious tone bringing me back to the present. “You don’t have any friends.”
I’m offended, more because he’s right than by what he actually said. I don’t have any friends beyond one, and Alyssa and I don’t hang out that much. It’s hard for me to get close to anyone. I don’t trust easily.
“You don’t know them—” I say, but he cuts me off with a look.
“Them. You’re not referring to girls. More like boys. Or just one boy.” He spits the last word out. “Don’t bother lying. I know what you do when you leave our home.”
Our home? I almost laugh in his face. Where we live isn’t a home. It’s a shit-hole. A dirty, rundown trailer. We are the epitome of trash. I don’t let anyone know where I live for fear they’d never stop teasing me about it.
“You don’t know crap,” I mutter, turning to walk to the back of the trailer, where my bed is. But the trailer is small and my dad is somehow extra fast, because next thing I know, he’s stopping me from going anywhere, one hand on my arm, fingers pressing into my skin so hard I’m afraid I might bruise. I try to jerk away from his hold, but his fingers tighten.
Trapping me.
“I know more than you think,” he rasps, his gaze narrowed, eyes full of disgust. “You look like a slut. That skirt barely covers your butt.”
A gasp escapes me and my chest tightens. He’s never called me anything so awful before. “Let go of me.” I struggle to get away from him, but he only squeezes tighter.
“You’ve been with a boy. You smell like it.” He leans in closer and sniffs, his lips curling. “You smell like sex.”
I want to die of embarrassment. I want to punch him in the stomach, knee him in the balls, do something to cause him even a fraction of the pain he just inflicted on me with his horrific words. I can’t even bother denying what he said, because he’s right. I probably do smell like sex. Sex and cigarettes and Nathaniel’s overpowering Axe cologne.
“You’re just like her,” Daddy says, giving me a little shake. My gaze meets his and I see all the anger and pain swirling there. This is a chronic problem. He’s always thinking of her, never remembering it’s me. “I couldn’t keep her satisfied. I can’t keep you happy either.”
His fingers go loose and I take my opportunity, pulling out of his grip. The tiny back bedroom is only a few steps away, but the distance feels like miles. I run toward the room, shutting the door as hard as I can right in my father’s face.
“Open the door!” He rattles the handle just as I turn the cheap lock to keep him out. He could bust right in if he wanted to, but he weakly shakes the handle for maybe another thirty seconds before he gives up and stomps away.
I push away from the door and go to my bed, collapsing on top of it with a muted cry. The room is small, and drafty, and I swear the walls are going to collapse on top of me when a slight wind picks up.
But it’s all mine. My father gave it to me instead of taking it for himself when we first moved into the tiny fifth-wheel a couple years ago. He said I was a young woman who needed privacy and my own space, and he was right. I cried and cried when we got kicked out of our old house, when I had to leave my bedroom behind. I was a wailing, hysterical mess, and I swear he gave me the only bedroom truly to shut me up.
I’ve learned since then I’ll do whatever it takes to get what I want.