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You’re six years old--gonna be seven soon--and your mother won’t go to the park with you.
She says that she can’t, but your teacher told your class that it means “physically unable,” drilling the message into your heads by refusing to let you go to the bathroom if you asked “Can I go” instead of “May I.” (Mickey Milkovich peed himself last week, and you were the only one who didn’t laugh.) So Mom is saying that she’s “physically unable” to take you to the park, but she moves around the house just fine. Daddy shakes his head and rolls his eyes and laughs, but all it does is make her face pinch like she’s holding back tears.
You decide to ask him as he sets up the weekend picnic Mom used to take you on. “Why doesn’t Mom want to come outside with me?”
Your voice is small, but Daddy looks at you like you’re shouting. He does this sometimes. “Oh, she’s just, you know--being silly.”
You furrow your brows; silly? “So she’s playing a game?”
Daddy snorts. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s all a game.”
You don’t understand, but you keep quiet anyway--Daddy doesn’t like when you ask too many questions.
The food tastes stale now, though; you’ve lost your appetite.
***
Mom promises that she'll make it to the park for your birthday party this weekend--"Seven years old! Oh, my baby's practically grown-up!"--but Daddy snickers behind her back, face contorted into the sort of ugly smirk you've seen on the kids in your class who complain about how bad Mickey smells and tease him about the dirt on his face and under his gritty fingernails. You remember how sad he always looks on Valentine's Day, when it’s time for the class to exchange cards, and there are none in the bunch for him.
When she tries to open the door, her hand shakes, and Daddy laughs. "Come on, Karen," he says, pushing passed Mom, who looks at you with an ocean of sorrow swimming in her eyes. "We don't have time for this."
Mom is still standing in the doorway, watching Daddy pull you along, and you don't know which of them you hate more.
Later, when Daddy sits at a table with his work friends playing cards, you think about how Mom would have played hide-and-seek with you, would have put icing on your nose and then given you an Eskimo kiss, and how you would have pushed her away but secretly liked it, even with all the neighborhood kids being there.
A shout from the bench your presents are stored on draws you out of your reverie, and you watch a kid who insists everyone calls him Stumpy knock something out of Mickey's hands. Mickey's face gets red and he clenches his fists, shaking in anger. His sister--you think her name is Mandy--gets in the kid's face immediately, and some of the nearby parents roll their eyes. Other kids gather around the two of them. Lip Gallagher is laughing, but his little brother--Ian?--looks uncomfortable.
Mickey stomps off, leaving the small girl to rant on his behalf and almost walking into you in his haste to get away. He blanches when he sees you, like he expects you to be mad at him. "I--I didn't," he stutters, biting his lip. "I wasn't gonna steal anything," he says quietly. "My--my mom didn't wrap it right, I just wanted to see--"
"Damn right you weren't stealing anything." Daddy is suddenly there, casting a huge shadow over the two of you, twisting his face into an ugly glare.
Mickey shuffles his feet and refuses to look up, hunching in on himself so that he's almost smaller than you. "Goddamn urchins," Daddy mutters, shaking his head as he walks away.
His sister is still yelling, her tiny voice piercing and shrill. You can see Mickey gulp and think you hear him sniffle, but before you can say anything, he abruptly turns away from you to walk back to her. Stumpy moves to block his path when he grabs his sister's shirt to tug her home, but Mickey shoves him ferociously with his other hand and screams "Fuck off!" in his face. The parents who stand off to the side chatting stop their idle conversations to drop their mouths open in shock as he storms off, head held high.
You can't help but smile, and a part of you that you don't really understand yet--a part you will later describe as vindictive--is proud of him.
The disgusted look on Daddy's face makes you think of how Mom would have given Mickey an extra piece of cake without thinking about it, would have smiled at Mandy and patted her head, would have made Stumpy apologize before giving him a slice noticeably smaller than everyone else's.
You miss her.
You're eleven now, and you're starting to hit puberty.
Mom teaches you how to put on makeup, and online shops for bras that push your newly acquired boobs up and round them out. Boys are looking at you, noticing you--older boys, eighth grade and high school and beyond--and it’s kind of exhilarating. (Except when it’s Dad’s work friends, who ask you to bring them beers whenever Dad forces you to one of their barbecues and then brush their fingers against yours as you pass them the bottle.) You can feel their eyes on you as you walk through the hallway at school, as you ride your bike around town, as you pick up Mom’s groceries. It makes you feel special, like you’re something worth looking at. Especially when it gets you invited to Kyle Kennedy’s party.
Kyle Kennedy is a junior at the high school, and the drinks he hands you are the first you’ve ever had. He thinks you’re thirteen when he takes you up to his room, holding your sweaty hand in his, and you don’t correct him. You’re not sure if it’s because of how fuzzy your tongue is or if it’s the giggles keeping you from talking or if it’s something else.
You don’t remember much of what happens after he closes the door and leads you to his bed, but you wake up to vomit a few hours later and the party is still raging downstairs; music and laughter and the acrid stench of alcohol. There’s blood on your thighs and staining the sheet you wrapped around yourself to stagger to the bathroom and between your legs is throbbing. You can’t tell if the pain is good or not, if it’s worse than the pounding behind your eyes and the churning in your gut.
Someone knocks on the door and pushes it open before you can shoo them away, and you can barely make out a whispered “Jesus,” over the rushing in your ears. Whoever is in there with you runs the faucet for a moment before kneeling beside you and pressing a cool, damp washcloth to your clammy skin. “Christ, how old are you, kid?” she asks. Her brown eyes are swimming when you look at her, and you can’t answer. The girl sighs and stands you up, heels clicking sharply against the tile, and takes you back to Kyle’s room and to gather your clothes--how did she know that’s where they would be?
She helps you get dressed and doesn’t answer your unasked question, so you take the time to study her. Her hair is crimped and has some glitter in it, her eyeliner is smudged, and her dress doesn’t fit her right. Or maybe it’s supposed to be hanging off her. You can’t tell.
“Sleep it off, okay?” she says softly. She lingers in the doorway as she leaves you on Kyle’s bed with the sheets that are spotted with your blood, and there’s something sad in her eyes that you can’t identify. She closes the door behind her.
You nod off and come to some time later. There’s still music playing, but less laughter. Another smell has joined the alcohol, but it’s unfamiliar to you, so you try to ignore it as you stumble down the stairs, gripping the railing with one hand and your shoes with the other. Bodies are packed tightly together, and you have to push people out of your way to get to the door.
When you finally get out to the porch you’re unprepared for how cool the night air is, and your head starts to clear as goosebumps spring up along your arms.
“You got a jacket?”
The voice makes you yelp, and your shoes clatter to the floor. Mickey is leaning against the side of the house, eating family-pack sized Twizzlers out of the bag. He looks so small and out of place.
He huffs out a put-upon sigh and pushes off the house to shrug his hoodie off and hand it to you. “You headin’ home?” he asks.
You nod dumbly, but don’t move to drape the jacket over your shoulders. “Were you invited?” you ask instead. Some part of you that isn’t shitfaced cringes.
He rolls his eyes. “Nah. I’m only here to make sure Kennedy pays my brother.” He inclines his head toward the baseball bat resting next to him. “You alright, Jackson?” he asks.
For some reason, it surprises you that he knows who you are. And that he’s concerned about you. “Yeah, I’m...I’m fine.”
He clucks his tongue. “Uh-huh. How far away are you?”
You gesture vaguely down the street. “Just a few blocks that way.”
He glances behind him at the people dancing around and shakes his head. “Alright, let’s go.”
It takes a few seconds for you to register that he’s started walking in the direction you indicated. “What are you doing?”
“Walking you home, the fuck’s it look like?” he snaps. “Get with the program, Barbie, I got important shit to do.”
You’re too stunned and drunk to protest, so you hurry to catch up to him. “Are you gonna put the jacket on or what?” he asks, annoyed.
It’s been clutched in your fist since he handed it to you. You catch a whiff of cigarette smoke and butterscotch candy as you zip it up, and you find the smell oddly comforting.
He walks quickly and doesn’t talk, so you follow his lead, even though there are endless questions bubbling up your throat. Which brother are you here for? Why are you here and not him? Is that bat for intimidation or bone-breaking?
When you get to your street, all the lights are on, which means your parents are still awake. Crap. The door is wrenched open before you can slot your key into the lock, and your mother is pale in the threshold. “Oh, Karen! Why didn’t you tell me you’d be out so late?”
She ushers you and Mickey inside, paying no heed to his dirty sneakers, so you know she must have been worried out of her mind. Guilt burns through a blush on your cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mom,” you say sheepishly.
Mickey stands awkwardly by the door, and Mom’s eyes find him after a few seconds of silence. “Oh! Were you on a date?” she asks happily, clapping her hands together and darting her eyes between them rapidly.
Mickey’s eyes widen. “Date?” he echoes. “Uh, Mrs. Jackson, I don’t think--”
“Date?!” Dad thunders as he rises from his armchair. “She’s too young to date, Sheila, what is the matter with you?!”
You can feel Mickey’s eyes on you, but suddenly you can’t look up from your shuffling feet. “Thanks for walking me home,” you say softly.
He nods, and slips quietly out the door.
The third time you fall asleep that night, you’re in your own bed, still wrapped in Mickey’s jacket. You run your fingers idly over the rivulets of blood that have caked onto your thighs, trying to remember if you’d enjoyed losing your virginity.
Years later, you’re still wondering.
***
Everyone knows your name in school on Monday, the boys and the girls. They whisper as you walk through the halls, and teachers you’ve never had before give you sidelong glances as you pass their classrooms. You don’t find out why until you go to the bathroom third period and overhear three girls talking about the fact that you fucked Kyle, let Matthew Jameson feel you up, jerked off Jermaine Johnson, and blew Mickey against your front door as your parents waited in the living room while you sit frozen in a stall.
The jacket suddenly feels constricting, and you wait until the door swings shut before you yank the zipper down and burst out.
The story has spread like wildfire by eighth period, and more embellished versions are scribbled into virtually every bathroom stall. Mickey looks confused and uncomfortable when you see people try to congratulate him in the hallway, and you watch his shoulders tense when he overhears someone calling you a slut. He catches your eye and looks like he wants to apologize, but doesn't know how.
You smile at him. He nods.
He doesn't ask for the jacket back.
You're thirteen, and you've determined that sex is definitely something you enjoy. Never with Kyle or any of his friends, though--you avoid them like the plague, freezing up whenever you see one of them in the grocery store or at the mall. You're not sure why.
You avoid being at home, too; Mom's newest medication makes her weepy, and the disdainful looks Dad gives her make you seethe with a rage you didn't realize you were capable of feeling. His snide comments set your teeth on edge, and you have to force yourself to keep quiet. Mom insists that it doesn't help anything to yell, but it certainly makes you feel a hell of a lot better. Dad always gets this put-upon look on his face, like he can't believe he got stuck with you.
It cycles like this: Mom tries to do something, something simple, setting goals for herself that she puts on the fridge and tries not to notice Dad scoffing at. Something will go wrong, and she'll start to cry before she can help herself. You try to comfort her, and Dad will snicker, like he knew all along that this would happen. Fury will pulse through you, and you'll want so badly to scream ugly words that you've only heard at school or on TV at him, but you know he'll just call you an ungrateful brat. "I raised you better than this."
Sometimes you feel like you raised yourself.
***
He leaves for the first time after Christmas.
Mom is crying and apologizing and grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket, but he pushes her away and steps onto the porch with a cruel smirk on his face, like he knows it's eating her up inside that she can't follow him out there. He says he'll come back for his stuff tomorrow, that he would appreciate it if she would pack it for him. "Do you think you could handle that, Sheila?"
You watch her beg and plead from the top of the stairs, and promise yourself you'll never give another person this kind of power.
She's still whimpering on the couch hours later, after having shrugged off your numerous attempts to comfort her. You try not to resent her, try to keep all your hate aimed at him, but it occurs to you that your father has just left you, and you're alone in your room.
The air in your room, in the entire house, is suddenly stifling, and you itch to get out. You can't go out the front door, won't make your mother have to watch you leave her too, so you open your window and try to plan out how you'll climb down. You're halfway out when you see him.
"Mickey!"
He jumps, head darting around until his eyes settle on you trying not to lose your footing on a tree branch. "Jackson? What the fuck?"
You wait until you've touched ground to answer him, taking note of the careful way he tracks your movements as he edges closer, like he's worried you'll fall and will try to catch you if you do. "Wanna hang out?"
He quirks an eyebrow and bites his lip, like he's holding back a smile. "Sure," he shrugs, adjusting his backpack. "Got nothin' better to do."
He starts off again to wherever he was planning on going before you interrupted him, and you follow eagerly, hoping he'll take you somewhere exciting, like an opium den.
He stops under the L tracks, and you try not to show your disappointment and confusion. He snorts, seeing through you immediately. "Just hold on," he says. "It'll get good."
He climbs to the top of a van that may or may not be someone's home and opens his bag, spreading a blanket out and planting himself. He pulls a baggie out of a side pocket and produces a lighter from his jacket, taking out one of the rolled up joints and lighting it for the two of you to share.
A sticky sort of warmth spreads through your chest, and the two of you relax together. Snow starts to drift down through the tracks, and he pulls out another blanket for you to drape over your shoulders while he folds the other one over his legs. It's surprisingly sweet.
You open your mouth to say something, but he shushes you. "Hold up," he says, listening intently. "Train's comin'."
The excitement on his face makes you curious, so you lay back and wait, anticipation growing as the noises signalling the train's impending arrival increase. You can feel it in pool in your gut, building up into your chest, vibrating in your fingertips. Mickey laughs delightedly as it passes over you, whooping and shouting the obscenities you think every time you look at your father about his own. The rush is exhilarating, like nothing you've experienced before, so liberating that you can't help but lean over to kiss him on the cheek.
He freezes abruptly, and he might even be holding his breath. "...What are you doing?"
You shrug. "Nothing."
He eyes you for a few moments longer before settling back into his section of the blanket. "Well don't do it again," he grumbles, closing his eyes.
You laugh, and he opens one to glare at you. "Sorry," you smile, completely invalidating your apology. "It won't happen again."
More unintelligible mumbling before you lapse into silence again, the ghost of your laughter fading away until you're forced to confront the fact that your mother is home alone. Just a little longer, you promise yourself. I'll check on her in a few minutes.
***
"Get up, would you? It's fucking freezing."
He shakes you awake, brushing a fine layer of snow off your arm and trying to shake out your blanket. You must not respond quickly enough, because he rolls his eyes and starts folding his blanket without waiting for you to get off of it. "Let's go, Marie. I'm not tryna freeze my fuckin' nuts off."
"Marie?" you yawn, stretching and ignoring the withering look he gives you because of your stalling.
"Antoinette," he says shortly. "And if you're not careful, you'll end up just like her."
You snort, standing to help him finish the chore. He hops down from the van without offering to help you, but waits for you before he starts walking. He's taking you back to your house, and you find yourself wishing he left you to sleep in the snow. "This was fun," you say instead, trying to prolong the time before you have to pick your mother up. As soon as the thought enters your head, shame pricks at the back of your neck, and you walk faster. "We should do it again sometime." Your mouth is dry.
He shrugs, ignorant to the flurry of Has she eaten dinner? and How will I get her off the floor? swirling in your head. "Yeah, sure. Whatever." He waves halfheartedly as you open your gate, steeling yourself for whatever you might find on the other side of the door.
Nothing prepares you for the sight of your father sitting on the couch, watching television, while your mother smiles tearfully and brings him snacks. You watch him kiss her hand, watch her practically melt, and gag.
It cycles like this: Mom and Dad fight. Dad storms off. Mom is inconsolable. You sneak out, back to that spot under the tracks. Sometimes Mickey is there, sometimes he's not. When he is, there are more bruises and cuts on him than usual, and you know that you're there for the same reason; he'll hand you his joint wordlessly, so you know not to comment on the way his hand shakes, and the two of you wait for the train to come by before you unleash your anger out into the world.
Sometimes Dad is home already by the time you return, and if he isn't, he'll be back by morning. You've become numb to it by now, but Mom falls for it every single time. You're not sure how much of her crying is genuine and how much is because of those pills, so when you bring it up at her next appointment, her dosages get adjusted. Less crying means less fighting, less fighting means less sneaking out, less sneaking out means less Mickey.
He knocks on your window one night the summer you turn fourteen, but it doesn't startle you. "Hey," you say easily, taking his backpack from him as he wiggles in.
"Hey." He stands awkwardly once he settles himself, like he's not sure he should have come. "Haven't seen you in a while."
You shrug. Mom's new dosages are a vast improvement, so there's not as much to scream about.
He eyes you for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. "Everything okay?" It seems like he's more asking for the sake of routine, like he's trying to cover up his own hurt by trying to find out if you have any.
"I wouldn't go that far, but it's definitely better," you reply. "How about you? Your dad still a prick?"
He pauses for too long, and dread settles in your stomach. "Mick? Did something happen?"
He gulps, fingernails digging into his palms. "My, um. My mom died," he answers thickly. He exhales heavily, bringing his hands up to press the heels of his palms to his eyes.
You stay on your bed, stunned and trying to process. You'd only met his mother a handful of times, at the playground or the grocery store. She'd seemed like a nice woman, and you always found yourself wondering how she ended up with someone like Terry. "Did--I mean, are you--"
"Am I okay?" he interrupts sharply. "No, I'm not fucking--fuck!" He turns away from you, rubbing furiously at his face, shoulders shaking.
You're at a loss; you know he doesn't want the hug you long to give him. There must be something--
The backpack is at your feet, and you're suddenly struck with an idea. "Come on," you urge softly, briefly touching his shoulder to turn him around. His eyes are red rimmed, and he avoids looking at you as you hand him his bag and push him toward the window.
You lead him down the familiar path to your spot under the tracks, taking the blanket out of his backpack for him and draping it over the roof of the van that by now you're pretty sure is abandoned. He watches you without really seeing you, doesn't react when you grab his wrist to tug him down with you, doesn't object to you not letting go after he lays down.
The train is coming, and you feel a lump rise in your throat when you hear his breath hitch. You squeeze against where you can feel his pulse pounding, determinedly not turning to look at him when you hear sobs that can't quite be masked by the screeches above you.
Something has shifted in the small amount of space between you, something that keeps getting transferred back and forth through your skin. You fall asleep holding hands.
You're sixteen--gonna be seventeen soon--and you're a whore.
It's nothing you haven't heard before, nothing you haven't come to expect, but the clear disgust on your father's face hurts in a way you weren't prepared for. It hits you suddenly, how stupid this is, how stupid you are for buying into it, if only for a moment.
You're so fucking stupid.
"He humiliated me!" you scream. Tears are blinding you, but you can still recognize the vague outline of an end table with carefully arranged figurines. They shatter, and you wish it was Dad's skull. "Made me think he loved me!" More broken glass. Mom is yelling. Whores don't get cars.
You remember how happy he looked when you agreed to go to this stupid fucking purity ball. He hasn't been proud of you in years. You whore.
Sobs wrack your body, and you feel arms wrap themselves around you tightly, arms that haven't known how to comfort you for so long that you'd almost forgotten what it was like. It's nice to switch back.
"Shh," she whispers into your temple. "Shh, honey, it's okay." She rocks you steadily, like she did whenever you had nightmares, but all you can think is Whore. Whore. Whore like a metronome. Whores don't get cars. Whores don't deserve love. You're a whore. I don't love you.
You can only cry harder, trying to bury yourself in the sugar cookies and blueberry muffins and waffles you can smell in Mom's cardigan, but it's no use.
You wonder if he ever loved you at all.
***
Mickey stops by every day. He never comes in, but you know he's there. You wait for him to get frustrated and leave, but he never does, even though you haven't seen each other in a week; he sits outside and smokes, watching the house, waiting for you like he's got all the time in the world. You don't remember him ever being this patient, and it annoys you. Whores don't get cars.
Lip stops by too. He tries to get the two of you back into your routine, the normalcy of chat and fuck, fuck and chat, but it doesn't work; you're hollow, empty. You whore.
"I love you," he gasps, like it's been weighing on him, like he's releasing his burden onto you. Fuck that. You aren't responsible whatever bullshit feelings he has.
You don't even know what love is, at this point; you know it has something to do with taking care of people, because why else would you and Mom stay together? Why else would Fiona work so hard for her siblings? But Lip doesn't want to take care of you--he wants to fuck, and banter back and forth, and unload the drama of his life on you.
You kick him out, and he doesn't take it well. "I promise I don't love you!" He says it desperately, and you remember all the begging Mom did that first time Dad left. Don't worry, you think despondently, you're not the only one.
Whores don't get cars.
Mickey is thundering down the stairs after Lip leaves, not even giving your new look a second glance. "What happened?" he demands flatly. "Did that shithead do somethin'?"
"No," you answer shortly, hating the way your voice breaks.
He clearly doesn't believe you, but he doesn't pressure you either. "Christ, what'd you do to your hair?"
A hoarse, self-deprecating laugh makes its way out of your throat. "We match," you quip, holding out your forearm and rolling up the sleeve of the jacket he gave you another lifetime ago to show him your tattoo. His face softens at the sight of it, and he reaches out to carefully outline it with his fingertip. The ink on his knuckles stands out even more when set against the background of your milky skin. "What do you think?"
He doesn't look up from his examination, still outlining the slightly red edges. "Shoddy line work."
A genuine laugh bubbles up. "Oh well. It was cheap."
"I can tell."
You're grinning at each other now, but he sobers quickly. "You need me to bust any kneecaps?"
There's a lump in your throat because of the way his face has hardened, and you feel tears starting to burn in your eyes. "Nah, don't trouble yourself. It's not worth it." I'm not worth it.
His eyebrows shoot up, like he knows what you're thinking. "I'll do it for free," he offers. "Those fuckers have had it comin' for a while. Not like I haven't kicked Lip's ass before. And I can get my cousin to tattoo 'DICK' on your dad's forehead. Or scoop his nuts out."
He thumbs along the inside of your wrist absentmindedly, and wow, promises of violence really shouldn't be this comforting. Your eyes prick harder at the sentiment, and you know the dam is about to burst. "You'd do that for me?" you ask quietly.
He doesn't look away from you when he answers. "Of course I would."
Everything breaks now, and you're sobbing again. He doesn't let go of your wrist, leads you to the bed you've been camped out on and lets you cry until you're numb. When you finish, he wordlessly hands you a cigarette, letting you take the first drag and not commenting on the way your fingers tremble.
You fall asleep holding hands.