The Kidnapper’s Blue Van
And The Girl Who Wrestled Fire
My mother was always telling me to use softer words. Words that do not hurt her ears. I used sharp words that made adults adjust themselves in their seats, look down at their hands, and question my moral compass. They’d ask my father, “How could such a small person say such adult words?” Big words are not just for big people.
If you don’t say the words on your tongue they grow into a secret in your brain. Grown ups have secrets, all huddled together smoking cigarettes ushering me out of the room whispering where they think I can’t hear. Now, like adults, I’ve got secrets of my own desperate for air.
Scott Huff hated me. That was OK, because I hated him. There were 19 second graders in my class, but only five girls. Five. I counted on the first day because that number seemed quite unfair.
I was told boys and girls were equal in the world, but my second grade class had a lot more penis’s than vaginas. Penises were ugly, squishy sticks like things that hung off the body and felt like dried Play-doh. I needed less of those in my life.
Fourteen annoying, obnoxious boys, with their Hulk Hogan and Luke Skywalker action figure dolls perched upon their stupid desks like trophies.
