Give and Take (One Shot Backstory/Character Study for HH)
My first kiss happened when I was thirteen. A few weeks after my birthday, a few months after my dad had died. Perhaps an embarrassingly old age, but Justin was the first boy I noticed in that stomach flip-flops kind of way. I'd been out of school (again) for fighting (again) and asked to borrow his notes from history class. He walked me home and under the elm tree in our front yard he'd brushed a curl back from my face and pressed his lips to mine in a quick, dry touch. It was over as soon as it'd begun and we both shuffled into our respective houses, embarrassed and flushed with the innocent discovery.
The next day my name was scrawled next to the word SLUT in the boy's bathroom. I know because Tommy Jacobs asked me to find another use for my mouth besides smarting off to 'my betters'. He quoted the urinal graffiti as his reference for the suggestion, I introduced my knee to his balls. That got me another week of suspension. I didn't ask to borrow anyone's notes when I returned to school.
I quickly discovered, however, that there was a certain amount of attention that came with said reputation. And with a mother lost in her own grief and a brother old enough to feel that his kid sister was some strange creature best left alone, I craved attention. The kisses became more frequent, the hands running over my developing body bolder, and with each stolen make-out session behind the storage shed on the school yard I found a spike of adrenaline that made me feel alive. That took me out of the dark haze that my father's death had plunged me in to.
My first real boyfriend came the summer before my freshman year. His name was Edward, everyone called him Ed, but I got to use the nickname 'Eddie'. We held hands at the movies and he made me feel like something other than a gangly, coltish adolescent. Eddie was two years older than me, which should have been some kind of indication to me what his intentions were, but I was giddy with the feeling of being wanted.
Our month anniversary of dating, he gave me a necklace - one of those cheap imitation pearl things you can get at the store for ten bucks. That night he pressed me down into the blankets in the back of his truck as we were parked in some secluded spot and, with heavy panting breaths and awkward movements and a shot of pain that made me gasp, taught me that every gift comes with strings attached.
Apparently my gift wasn't worth his, because when school started the next day all I had of that relationship was a necklace that tarnished inside of a week and more bathroom etchings with my name linked to words that seemed to give me more experience than I'd think was possible for a girl of fifteen.
The next time my clothes came off, I at least knew what to expect. He'd brought me flowers, and I, of course, knew what happened next. You had to give them something to make them want to come back. That something grew into something more the longer they were around you. Kenneth was his name and after we'd been together two weeks he gave me a bouquet of flowers and mentioned that most girls had put out by then. I obliged, he stayed with me another month, long enough to go to a school dance and get our pictures taken wearing awkwardly formal clothes.
The first time one of the boys decided that he should get without giving was my sophomore year. Richard pulled over while driving me home from a game and pinned me to the seat. He was a senior and twice my size. I don't know if I'll ever forget the terror I felt with his hands probing and tearing at my shirt, his jeans rough against my bare leg, his body heavy and solid, holding me down.
I broke his fingers to get away. He swore, called me a bitch and a whore, and shoved me out of the car, taking off in a cloud of dust. I walked three miles home and told my mom that my friend had dropped me off around the corner because I had a headache and needed the fresh air. She gave me a bland, distant smile, gave me a glass of water, and sent me off to bed. That was the last time I cried myself to sleep.
By the time I graduated, I understood how things worked. It was a balancing act, a delicate give and take. Playing with fire. The only reason I was desirable is if the boys thought I'd give them what they wanted. The only way I was safe is because I had the ability to withhold it and the reputation as a ball buster to back it up. Richard wasn't the last one to try to take what I didn't want to give, but he held the dubious honor of starting a chain of boys who decided to try their luck.
None of them succeeded in giving me anything more lasting than bruises and a split lip.
The bathroom wall stopped bothering me about the same day that I decided to join up with the I.S. That was also the day my brother stopped talking to me. He blamed the I.S. for our dad's death, which was a load of shit, because when dad died I was the only one sitting by his bedside. For my brother to feel so strongly about it that he'd cut me out was ludicrous at best. But typical. Give and take. I couldn't provide any of the validation he needed, so he moved on. He was a man. It was what they did.
The rush of walking in a room and seeing heads turn to look at me never got old, even if the panting and the groping did. It was the only way to get attention, after all. The only way to be wanted.
And maybe I'd never stopped being that twelve year old with a sudden hole in her life that she had no idea how to fill.
Or maybe I just was what the urinal graffiti said.