Prodigy

"Pull up, pull down," he says, "open them wide, come on, baby girl, you have nothing to hide." She hesitates, her big, blue eyes staring up, questioning him. Trembling, she replies, "Mommy said to keep my clothes down. Mommy told me not to let boys look up my skirt." He laughs. "Oh, honey," he whispers. "I'm not a boy. I'm your father."

She's seven years old, in the 2nd grade, and her favorite color is pink. She likes to have graham crackers and milk as an afternoon snack, and her daddy lets her play with her Polly Pockets until her mommy gets home from work. But not today. Today her daddy tells her it's time for something educational. He's heavy like a stone coffin, lowered into a grave, and she's at the bottom, in the pit, surrounded by dirt, suffocating, she whimpers, "Daddy," she whispers. "Is education supposed to hurt?" He laughs again, and combs his rough, calloused fingers through golden wisps of little girl hair. "Education," he tells her, "Hurts if you wait too long to learn, baby girl, I am teaching you." He tells her, "what everybody learns later on in life. I'm teaching you now so you will be a prodigy."

"Daddy," she whispers, her breath cut off by the weight lain across her chest, his frame swallowing her little person. She's only 3 feet, 11 inches, 51 pounds. "Daddy," she wheezes, "What's a prodigy?"

His mouth, wet and warm and icky moves along her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. His hands hold her legs far apart, and she feels that she is breaking in the middle. She wonders if her mommy can fix her with Krazy glue, she wonders if she learns this lesson well, if she'll get a gold star at the end of the day. "A prodigy," he tells her, "Is a child who is ahead of those her age. Baby girl, I'm going to make you a prodigy."

Tears, like little clear minnows, swim in her pale blue eyes. She bites her lip, pretends it doesn't hurt, maybe she'll get a sticker like after the doctor or a lollipop, like after the dentist. He's moving too much, he's moving all over her, he has her between his fingers, she gulps a piece of air and clenches her jaw because now she has to go, and if she has an accident in the bed, she'll get a spanking, and she doesn't think she'll be able to stand up too good after he beats her.

"Baby girl," he crushes himself against her collarbone, panting like their dog, Leo, he's a Saint Bernard. "Baby girl, you are beautiful. God, baby, you're beautiful." "Daddy," she says in a hushed tone, fearing that if she speaks up and out, her voice will crack and she'll never be able to talk again . "What am I supposed to learn?"

His eyes, glazed and overflowing with impure hunger, lock on her, and he grins. "Anatomy," he tells her, "The human body." He takes her little girl hands in his and guides them along his body, her skin crawls, and she decides that anatomy is going to be her worst subject from now on. "Will I have this lesson again in school?" She asks her father. "Since I'm learning it already?" He holds her wrists above her head and chuckles. "Maybe in the 8th grade," he tells her. He presses down on the inside of her, and she hears her soul snap in two.

It's a clean break. There are no extra pieces, no slivers, no residue, no sheddings, no shavings, no nothing, but she feels it in her body, she feels it in the hollow of her core. She's broken. She's broken, and she doesn't want to tell her daddy that he accidentally broke her.

"It's a secret," he kisses her mouth, grabs her hair in his fist and pulls, "You can't tell your mommy." It takes a moment, but she speaks. Softly, softly, she speaks. "Why?" "Because, honey," he rubs her cheeks, "Mommy will be angry that she didn't get the chance to teach you herself, your teachers will be, too, and your friends will all be sad that nobody took the time to teach them this lesson." He laughs again, again and again. "It will be our secret, baby girl. You're my little prodigy." He scoops her up and lays her onto his chest. She's leaked onto the bedsheets, but he isn't angry, he doesn't say a thing, he doesn't spank her. She looks up at him, and he smiles. "If you tell," he warns her, "We'll have to learn anatomy again." "Daddy," she whispers, "Why am I bleeding?" He tells her it will stop, and no, she cannot have a Band-aid.

Little girl doesn't tell. She doesn't tell, but she continues to take lessons in anatomy.

She's seventeen years old, in the eleventh grade, and her favorite color is red. She stands on the sidewalk in fishnets and heels, with makeup plastering her face. He picks her up in his Bentley and tells her, "Baby girl, you're beautiful." He's 43 years old, that's 25 years her senior. "I know," she says, "I know. My daddy told me."