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calling me a slut the night she caught Michael and I in the bedroom feeling each other. My shirt was on the floor, my bra straps hanging from my shoulders. Why should she have cared? She wasn't around much, and when she was home, she spent her time with Alfie in front of the television set, drinking her damned beer. If I wanted to explore the parts of me that apparently gave Mama pleasure, why shouldn't I?
    I was hit pretty hard that night. That was the first time I remember Mama striking me without using a wooden spoon or ruler. As Michael ran from the bedroom and I heard the screen door open and shut, Mama pulled back her arm and punched me in the side of the head.
    "You know better than that!" she screamed. "I didn't raise you to be a slut!"
    I grabbed the side of my head and pushed against the wall. " You didn't raise me at all! "
    I was right, and Mama knew it. It didn't matter, though. What I said at that moment in between the shock of being discovered and the pain of being hit so hard was a blow to Mama. Her eyes opened wider than I'd seen them before, and if she were a demon, I swear I would have seen her tail stand straight up, a barbed hook ready to strike me dead. Instead of a tail, she hit me again, square in the chest.
    It's not fun to lose your breath when you're crying.
    Michael was banned from the trailer for a few weeks and he did his best to stay away. I couldn't have it, though, and always waited until Mama was asleep or too drunk to notice me slip out the bedroom window and head over to meet with him. It was rebellion, pure and simple. Mama didn't want me to have a boyfriend, and I didn't want her to step into my life like she suddenly cared.
    Getting out of the trailer was easy; getting back in, however, required a little more assurance that neither Mama nor Alfie were going to wake up. I couldn't reach my window from the outside, so I had to use the front or back door.
    The night Mama locked both doors, I knew I was in trouble.
    "Well, well, well." I heard Mama's voice from the kitchen after trying the backdoor. "If it isn't my little slut."
    I swallowed back both fear and rage. I wasn't a slut, and she knew it. I never once gave into my urges to let Michael inside of me, fearing the pain more than anything else. Yes, he'd seen my breasts and felt my body from head to toe. He'd even licked the wetness from between my legs once with that very tongue Grandma warned me about. That didn't make me a slut, however.
    "Can I come in, Mama?" It sounded pathetic, but I didn't know what else to say. Should I run away and hide out in the maintenance shed? Would it matter? Mama or Alfie were bound to find me.
    I heard the chain on the door slide across and the lock on the door jiggle. I saw the door creak open just a bit, but not all the way. I guessed at that point she wanted me to come inside.
    A beer bottle flew from the crack in the door and struck me on my cheek. It didn't break, but I stumbled back off the steps and landed on the gravel with a thud. I looked up just in time to see the door slam shut again and hear the lock engage.
    "You can stay out there, tonight, bitch!" Mama screamed. It's a wonder—even to this day—she didn't wake the neighbors. "We'll talk about this in the morning."
    I pushed myself up and brushed my cheek with dirty hands. In the dim moonlight, I could see blood in streaks on my palm. I'd been cut, and now there was probably dirt mixed in.
    I didn't know where to go, but I ran. I couldn't go back to Michael's trailer; his parents were awake and probably didn't know Michael had been out as well. I didn't dare get him in trouble. What other friends I may have had—if, indeed, I had any other friends—were undoubtedly asleep or wouldn't let me in anyway. Some people just don't want to be bothered with other people's problems. This was my problem. I brought it on myself for exploring my body, indulging in urges I'd just recently started having. This was my problem and no one was going to