Deanna said to me. “They shot him. He’s not alive.”
I ran outside. I couldn’t take Deanna another second. I couldn’t breathe either. I ran as hard as I could around our property. I ran until my sweat soaked my shirt. I didn’t know what to do or who could help me. I knew where we had buried Buttercup and Bandit, so I figured Prince was buried there, too. I don’t think I ever found the exact spot, but I pretended he was under my feet, right next to them. I went out often and talked to him. I felt like I had lost Prince twice, and both times messed me up.
As if I needed more to mess me up.
Mom found bloody underwear beneath the stairs. The incidents were happening in the basement. Afterward, I had a ritual of hiding the clothes, bathing, and then going outside to talk to Prince. I’d just shove my panties up under the wooden staircase because no one messed around in there. I was afraid someone might find the panties in the garbage can, and I didn’t know what a nine-year-old was supposed to do with filthy, dirty clothes. I didn’t know how to use the washing machine; I couldn’t even reach it.
One weekend morning, Mom lined up Christy and me downstairs and stood across from us pointing her finger. Christy and I were pretty much the same size, and we grabbed our underwear out of the same drawer. We’d put on whatever panties were clean.
“Whose are these?!” she yelled at us. I didn’t know how to deal with it. I was so scared. I couldn’t tell her they were mine. If I did, I was afraid she’d hate me, and Dad would kill me.
“What happened?! Somebody better tell me something right now!” It was Saturday, and she was home doing the laundry in the basement.
Christy started crying, too. Mom didn’t yell that much, and she rarely got that mad. Christy said absolutely nothing. She was seven, and she was confused.
“If you girls don’t tell me whose these are, I’ll take you to the doctor,” Mom said, threatening us. “The doctor will know the answer. I’ll take you both right now.”
I knew I was never supposed to lie to the doctor. I was trapped. Through tears and sniffles, I told Mom that the panties were mine. She walked away. About an hour later, she found me and gave me a lecture about when a girl starts her period.
A few days later, Mom brought me to Grandma Paulson’s house and said, “Stacey’s become a woman.” She told Aunt Deanna and Grandma. I even think one of my uncles overheard the conversation. I turned red, which just added embarrassment on top of embarrassment. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what I could do.
For all I knew, I was getting my period. I’d seen a movie at school on this topic. I knew girls menstruated every month once they got to a certain age. So maybe what he was doing to me caused my period because after each time, I bled. I tried to put it all together, but nothing made sense. If I got my period, did that mean I would get pregnant? I did have a little belly. So was I pregnant? What exactly made me a woman? What he did to me, or getting my period? Had I really started my period?
I stopped sleeping well at night. My breath became shallow sometimes for no reason, and I struggled to stay calm. I woke up with nightmares. There was no woman in my body. I felt like a scared little girl.
Adding It Up
n the fifth grade, one thing—just one thing—started going right. I loved school again. This happened even though the man who had seemed so out to get me, Mr. Richardson, was again my teacher. He had been my dreaded third-grade teacher, too, the one who had tried to fail me for not knowing cursive. As time went on, he was nicer, thankfully. He was also my volleyball coach. Volleyball was great, too. My mom didn’t go to many games, and my dad even fewer, but that was okay. I scored points and got comfortable with my teammates. We were the Alhambra Tigers, and while the girls weren’t my best friends, they were much better than the boys, who gave
I ran outside. I couldn’t take Deanna another second. I couldn’t breathe either. I ran as hard as I could around our property. I ran until my sweat soaked my shirt. I didn’t know what to do or who could help me. I knew where we had buried Buttercup and Bandit, so I figured Prince was buried there, too. I don’t think I ever found the exact spot, but I pretended he was under my feet, right next to them. I went out often and talked to him. I felt like I had lost Prince twice, and both times messed me up.
As if I needed more to mess me up.
Mom found bloody underwear beneath the stairs. The incidents were happening in the basement. Afterward, I had a ritual of hiding the clothes, bathing, and then going outside to talk to Prince. I’d just shove my panties up under the wooden staircase because no one messed around in there. I was afraid someone might find the panties in the garbage can, and I didn’t know what a nine-year-old was supposed to do with filthy, dirty clothes. I didn’t know how to use the washing machine; I couldn’t even reach it.
One weekend morning, Mom lined up Christy and me downstairs and stood across from us pointing her finger. Christy and I were pretty much the same size, and we grabbed our underwear out of the same drawer. We’d put on whatever panties were clean.
“Whose are these?!” she yelled at us. I didn’t know how to deal with it. I was so scared. I couldn’t tell her they were mine. If I did, I was afraid she’d hate me, and Dad would kill me.
“What happened?! Somebody better tell me something right now!” It was Saturday, and she was home doing the laundry in the basement.
Christy started crying, too. Mom didn’t yell that much, and she rarely got that mad. Christy said absolutely nothing. She was seven, and she was confused.
“If you girls don’t tell me whose these are, I’ll take you to the doctor,” Mom said, threatening us. “The doctor will know the answer. I’ll take you both right now.”
I knew I was never supposed to lie to the doctor. I was trapped. Through tears and sniffles, I told Mom that the panties were mine. She walked away. About an hour later, she found me and gave me a lecture about when a girl starts her period.
A few days later, Mom brought me to Grandma Paulson’s house and said, “Stacey’s become a woman.” She told Aunt Deanna and Grandma. I even think one of my uncles overheard the conversation. I turned red, which just added embarrassment on top of embarrassment. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what I could do.
For all I knew, I was getting my period. I’d seen a movie at school on this topic. I knew girls menstruated every month once they got to a certain age. So maybe what he was doing to me caused my period because after each time, I bled. I tried to put it all together, but nothing made sense. If I got my period, did that mean I would get pregnant? I did have a little belly. So was I pregnant? What exactly made me a woman? What he did to me, or getting my period? Had I really started my period?
I stopped sleeping well at night. My breath became shallow sometimes for no reason, and I struggled to stay calm. I woke up with nightmares. There was no woman in my body. I felt like a scared little girl.
Adding It Up
n the fifth grade, one thing—just one thing—started going right. I loved school again. This happened even though the man who had seemed so out to get me, Mr. Richardson, was again my teacher. He had been my dreaded third-grade teacher, too, the one who had tried to fail me for not knowing cursive. As time went on, he was nicer, thankfully. He was also my volleyball coach. Volleyball was great, too. My mom didn’t go to many games, and my dad even fewer, but that was okay. I scored points and got comfortable with my teammates. We were the Alhambra Tigers, and while the girls weren’t my best friends, they were much better than the boys, who gave
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