8 Years Old
My father has a girlfriend with two sons; big sweaty boys, with pale skin and too-red cheeks. The boys are bullies; they tease me and call me names, spit on me and gloat about their basement full of televisions and video games which, they say, “girls aint allowed to play.” Seeking refuge, I creep up the stairs but my father and his girlfriend prefer to be alone.
“Flirt with them,” my father tells me. “Tell them that they’re handsome and strong – they’ll be nice to you.”
“But they aren’t,” I complain. “They’re gross and mean and I hate them!”
“Hate is a word that young women should never use,” he scolds me. “Now go down stairs and be nice to the boys.”
I am a mouse, creeping down the stairs silently. But the boys have cats’ eyes and begin their chant and soon as they spy me. “Did the baby run to Daddy?” I race at them, with every intention to strike, but I’ve learned from the daily fights with my older brother that my fists will have little effect. At the last second, I change my plan of attack, and instead set myself gently on the older boy’s lap. He begins to giggle self-consciously as I curl my finger through his dishwater mop of greasy hair. Confused and apprehensive, I reach my other hand out to brush the splotched chubby cheek of the younger brother who has just begun whining for my shared attention. The boys are all sugar now and I wonder why I still want to cry. Swallowing the fierce nausea that threatens to expel itself all over my new brothers, I rest my head on the older boy’s chest and reach for the Nintendo remote.
Return to your mentor
Memory of eleven years old
