Pictures of Childhood Part 4

I'm 13, with my parents at the country club. One of the caddies sees me, a strange, lewd grin on his face. His name is Pete. He is beautiful. He wants to take me on a tour of the course. Sitting beside him on the cart, I tremble inside. Every word out of my mouth acutely painful and awkward. After a while, he picks up speed. I fear getting thrown and trampled. He deposits me back at the golf shop. In the ladies’ room, I fantasize of him. A warm, melting glow spreading through my body. Try to hurry my mother so we can return. Back at the shop, he is gone. I never see him again.
 
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At 14 I fall asleep on the couch in the office. I'm wearing the pink satin nightgown my mother bought me. I'm so tired. I'm getting my period the next day, always sleep the day before. Suddenly I awaken in my stepfather's arms. He's holding me close, our bodies touching. “Happy birthday,” he breathes into my hair. But I don't understand. It's not my birthday. Not for many months. When I tell my doctor about it, he says my body can't help but react.
 
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At 16 I start cutting. Buy a pack of razors at the store. My hands shaking, wondering if the female cashier knows. It hurts, but it's a release. The boy who looks like Edward Scissorhands, his name is Richard. He was abandoned as a baby in an apartment with two other infants. They were found eating soap. I sit behind him on the sidewalk while he strums “Bela Lugosi’s Dead.” Hold onto him from behind, afraid to let go lest he vanish. He will never love me. His soft, hesitant kisses. Mom tells me to get away from him. I refuse. She stops loving me, too.
 
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18. I'm pretty. Boys try to talk to me, but they learn the truth and leave. There's something not quite right about me. The prom. Only one boy asks me, constellations of acne scattered across his face. Everyone takes off their shoes and moshes to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Richard goes with another girl. He wears a long black cape. I lose my mother's gold and amethyst earring. Search the dance floor frantically for it. The boy I came with tries to kiss me. I pull away in revulsion and shame. I wish I could love you, I think. But I can't.