September 13th, 1984.
13
My lessons with Mike are very helpful. After just a month- he explains those to me as well- I know all the letters, the numbers up to 100, the colors, the shapes, and lots of simple words. Today, as a thank you to Mike, I'm going to make him a drawing with my crayons and a page from my coloring book.
I sit at my small table. Which page should I use? I settle on one with a big rectangle in the middle. Mike looks like a skinny rectangle, all long and stretched out. I giggle a little as I think of Mike having a rectangle instead of a normal torso.
I start to color the rectangle in with yellow. Yellow is a nice color. Happy and sunshine are both yellow words in my mind.
"Eleven." The door opens and I freeze in my coloring. Papa. I stand up quickly and close my book.
"Yes."
"How are you today, Eleven?" He leans in the doorway, a small smirk on his lips.
"Papa?" I am confused. Papa has never asked that question before.
"How do you feel?" He asks again.
"Fine." I respond. It is the first thing that pops into my head.
"Good, good." He crosses the room and sits on my cot. He pats his lap. "Sit, Eleven."
"Yes Papa." I acquiesce and he settles his hands tightly around my waist. It's uncomfortable, but I don't say anything. I don't want to upset him.
"You've been having lessons with Michael Wheeler, yes? To learn?"
"Yes Papa."
"Well we need to teach your body too. To become flexible and strong."
I nod in understanding. My mind is strong, and my body needs to be the same way.
"Your teacher's name is Troy. He's going to be showing you how to fight." Papa strokes my chest lightly and I try not to wiggle too much.
"Okay."