Part Two
* * *
"I love you."
They all told me that. Every one of them. I love you I love you I love you.
And I believed them, I guess. Part of me knew better but it still felt so good to hear it. I never heard it at home, not from my dad, not even from my mom. And when the boys would say it I would kiss them and then they would touch me and I would touch them and I let them do what they were going to do, because at least they weren't yelling at me or calling me stupid or ugly. They were nice and even though it hurt some the first few times it was better than going home.
"I love you."
Maybe they did. I think maybe they really did, but it wasn't real love, either. It was that kind of love that you need, that makes you want someone, but not because of who they are but because of what they are.
I was a girl, and that was what they wanted, what they needed.
And I was willing. I wanted what they gave me, too.
And then I was late. Real late. I'm not stupid and I knew right away what it was, why it was. I knew what it meant.
#
A long time ago, my dad had made it pretty clear what it meant. It was me, even though he didn't say it outright. And like the times he's said he hates God, he wasn't drunk when he said what he did.
"Goddamn whores. Bringing up their goddamn welfare babies."
I remember he hit my mom that night because dinner was a little bit burned. When I went to my room I tried to cry, but I couldn't.
Welfare whore.
Just like I couldn't cry when I realized I was pregnant.
I thought about going to the boys I had been with, thought about asking for their help. But it's nearly impossible to keep a secret in Glenoak and I knew that if I told anyone that word of it would reach my father. I had to keep it a secret.
Maybe I could get an abortion.
No.
I was a whore. I was what he hated.
I knew, in that way you just know something about someone close to you, that my dad would kill me if he found out. He would get drunk and take a bat to me, or a knife from the kitchen, or maybe he would just use his hands. That didn't matter. He would kill me and maybe kill my mom too.
I just couldn't get an abortion. I thought about killing myself instead.
#
But when you are sitting naked in the bathtub, the razor in your hands, it isn't as easy as that. I was crying as I sat there; I had arranged it carefully and Mom and Dad weren't home that night and it would have been so easy, so, so easy, just to cut my wrists and let the blood fill the tub, just to end it all, because there wasn't anything I could do that would make things all right. I couldn't get an abortion, not without my parents finding out. And I couldn't get one because, as I sat there, the warm water of the tub around me, I saw that my belly was a little bigger than it had been. There was a baby in me, life in me, new and whole and innocent.
I was the whore, not the baby.
And so I couldn't do it. Even death was denied to me, because if I cut my wrists there, I would be no less a murderer than he would be.
I don't want to be my father.
#
I know my friends suspected. Baggy clothes. Sudden cleavage. I was lucky, though, because I wasn't taking gym that year and I could keep my growing belly hidden. But they suspected.
"What's new, Claire?"
"Nothing."
Cecilia watched me closely.
"You sure? You look tired."
"I've been studying a lot."
A nod. "We're going out to the mall after to school. You want to come along?"
"No thanks. I've got some stuff I need to do."
I had to avoid them, you see. I had to avoid them because the more time we spent together the more likely it was that they would find out.
I had to hide. I had to be alone. I ate a lot so my getting fat would seem like I just had an eating disorder.
My dad wouldn't kill me over an eating disorder.
* * *
"I love you."
They all told me that. Every one of them. I love you I love you I love you.
And I believed them, I guess. Part of me knew better but it still felt so good to hear it. I never heard it at home, not from my dad, not even from my mom. And when the boys would say it I would kiss them and then they would touch me and I would touch them and I let them do what they were going to do, because at least they weren't yelling at me or calling me stupid or ugly. They were nice and even though it hurt some the first few times it was better than going home.
"I love you."
Maybe they did. I think maybe they really did, but it wasn't real love, either. It was that kind of love that you need, that makes you want someone, but not because of who they are but because of what they are.
I was a girl, and that was what they wanted, what they needed.
And I was willing. I wanted what they gave me, too.
And then I was late. Real late. I'm not stupid and I knew right away what it was, why it was. I knew what it meant.
#
A long time ago, my dad had made it pretty clear what it meant. It was me, even though he didn't say it outright. And like the times he's said he hates God, he wasn't drunk when he said what he did.
"Goddamn whores. Bringing up their goddamn welfare babies."
I remember he hit my mom that night because dinner was a little bit burned. When I went to my room I tried to cry, but I couldn't.
Welfare whore.
Just like I couldn't cry when I realized I was pregnant.
I thought about going to the boys I had been with, thought about asking for their help. But it's nearly impossible to keep a secret in Glenoak and I knew that if I told anyone that word of it would reach my father. I had to keep it a secret.
Maybe I could get an abortion.
No.
I was a whore. I was what he hated.
I knew, in that way you just know something about someone close to you, that my dad would kill me if he found out. He would get drunk and take a bat to me, or a knife from the kitchen, or maybe he would just use his hands. That didn't matter. He would kill me and maybe kill my mom too.
I just couldn't get an abortion. I thought about killing myself instead.
#
But when you are sitting naked in the bathtub, the razor in your hands, it isn't as easy as that. I was crying as I sat there; I had arranged it carefully and Mom and Dad weren't home that night and it would have been so easy, so, so easy, just to cut my wrists and let the blood fill the tub, just to end it all, because there wasn't anything I could do that would make things all right. I couldn't get an abortion, not without my parents finding out. And I couldn't get one because, as I sat there, the warm water of the tub around me, I saw that my belly was a little bigger than it had been. There was a baby in me, life in me, new and whole and innocent.
I was the whore, not the baby.
And so I couldn't do it. Even death was denied to me, because if I cut my wrists there, I would be no less a murderer than he would be.
I don't want to be my father.
#
I know my friends suspected. Baggy clothes. Sudden cleavage. I was lucky, though, because I wasn't taking gym that year and I could keep my growing belly hidden. But they suspected.
"What's new, Claire?"
"Nothing."
Cecilia watched me closely.
"You sure? You look tired."
"I've been studying a lot."
A nod. "We're going out to the mall after to school. You want to come along?"
"No thanks. I've got some stuff I need to do."
I had to avoid them, you see. I had to avoid them because the more time we spent together the more likely it was that they would find out.
I had to hide. I had to be alone. I ate a lot so my getting fat would seem like I just had an eating disorder.
My dad wouldn't kill me over an eating disorder.
