#so this is why she's so fuckin cynical and negative and resentful

[tara-palmer]

man’s world - self para

She’s twelve when she first sees herself through a man’s eyes.

It’s her fourth year in foster care, fourth home, only her third school. She gets up at the breakfast! that somehow reaches her upstairs bedroom, having set an alarm for twenty minutes ago-- she likes to be able to just lie there, staring at the ceiling of the gradually lightening room as the rest of the world comes alive. She grabs a new white turtleneck, denim jacket, jeans with flannel stitched into the rips to comply with the school’s dress code. She blinks her way through a coat of mascara and finds a tinted chapstick before grabbing her backpack off the bedpost and thundering downstairs in her socks. “Morning,” She greets the small family: substitute mom and dad, older boy, younger girl-- their real kids. They respond in a chorus, save for the boy, who typically doesn’t utter a word until the sun’s been up for a few hours, unless it’s something negative. It’s a good family, though, not too exclusive, not unkind, but not falsely affectionate, either. The siblings always make room on the couch for her, even if the boy grumbles for a moment or two, and the girl seems delighted to have her around, always begging her to play with her Barbies and showing her off when her friends come over-- not because it’s weird to have a random girl in her house, but because she genuinely likes her. It’s nice to be on someone’s pedestal, even if it’s a seven-year old’s. When they’re rinsing their plates, the girl-- Isabella-- grabs her hand and starts asking her mom if she can show Tara what the Barbies are wearing today. “Three minutes,” she responds simply, taking Tara’s plate to let her go. She follows obediently, making sure to react appropriately when Isabella opens her bedroom door and makes a sweeping gesture toward the dolls, all-- surprisingly-- decked out in winter gear. Just the day before, they’d been in tight colorful dresses, and Tara had thought it was funny, given the season. “Look, now they’re not cold anymore, remember, you said they were probably cold before!” She nods with a grin, giving her a thumbs-up. “Yeah, they look awesome. And super warm. I’m sure they’re silently thanking you.” Isabella beams, apparently satisfied with her review. “Will you play with me after school? We can go outside with them so they can see the snow now that they’re warm!” In this moment, all she’s looking forward to doing after school is taking a nap, but she can’t say no. “Yeah, of course. If mom’s okay with it.” As if on cue, the same voice from the breakfast summons rings out again: “Tara, bus!” Isabella looks disappointed, and Tara pulls her into a half-hug before heading for the front door, shrugging her way into her coat and barely tying the high top Converse on the shoe rack. She follows Michael, the boy, outside and crunches down the path to the bus, hands in her pockets: it’s a trade off, because it pulls the coat and jacket down, separating the middle part and leaving her chest covered only by her turtleneck, but she can’t stand cold hands. As she boards the bus, she notices the driver eyeing her-- it’s not a familiar look, but she knows she doesn’t like it. Michael’s friend isn’t on the bus, so he lets Tara sit with him (to her relief.) She discards the coat for the time being, letting her jacket remain open-- it’s about a 30 minute route, and they’re right by a heating vent. Still, every time the doors open, she finds herself cold again. At one stop, an eighth grader gets on and as he passes, his expression seems to go from a reflection of the bus driver’s to a weird, crude smirk. She’s wondering if she has mascara smeared on her eyelid or jelly on her lip when she sees Michael roll his eyes and stare out the window, away from her. She checks her face in her little compact mirror, but can’t find an issue, so she just crosses her arms, slumps slightly in the seat, and waits for the ride to be over. --- She’s been at school for three hours, occasionally receiving long glances, odd winks and smirks from boys, and a couple flat out, wide-eyed stares, when the principal walks into her classroom. He’s there for a teacher evaluation, just watching to see how Ms. Jacobs is doing. After a few minutes, Tara gets up to sharpen her pencil and that’s when it all goes downhill-- no, falls straight off a cliff. She’d discarded her jacket a few minutes after sitting down, but as she stands up and heads to the pencil sharpener, a few snickers start up. The principal takes note and looks for the source-- when he finds her, white turtleneck, nervously cranking the sharpener, knowing they’re looking at her, he sputters for a moment before a real word comes out. “What are you wearing?” She feels like she’s going to pee, oh god, she never gets in trouble-- she looks around the room, hoping he meant to ask someone else and just happened to glare at her as he did so. “I-- what-- the pants? We-- we put some flannel in to make it in dress code, I thought--” “Don’t play dumb, you know it’s not the pants!” She feels like the whole world has shrunk to this classroom, like the fate of her whole universe depends on this. “I-- I don’t know--” “You think you can come in here with your boobs hanging out? What, is it not written in the dress code that we shouldn’t be able to see your entire--” Ms. Jacobs cuts him off there: “Principal Hanson-- please-- don’t embarrass her.” The class is on the verge of losing it and Tara can’t hear anything but their choked snorts and her own heart pounding. “She should be embarrassed!” He interrupts her heartbeat quickly, standing up. “There are boys and men in this school, and she’s strutting around like some kind of Playmate--” “Stop it! You can’t say that to a child!” He finds Tara again, pencil abandoned in the sharpener, collar of her turtleneck sporting black stains from the mascara that’s already run that far. He points to her, glaring at Ms. Jacobs. “She’s coming to the office. Now. We need to call her mother, she can’t walk around here like that.” She’s never been to the office except to take the roll sheets and on the first day when she signed in to meet her counselor. She’s vaguely aware of her own sniffling, but luckily, her classmates aren’t laughing anymore. One of the girls, Anna, gets up and delivers her denim jacket and a handful of tissues. Tara is focusing too hard on controlling her quivering lungs and lips to say much, and Ms. Jacobs thanks her in her place. “Let me talk to her first, then I’ll walk her down and we can call together. Sir, this isn’t a big deal unless you make it one.” “You don’t know what’s a big deal to a man,” He takes a moment to straighten himself up, then announces, “I’m expecting her in the next half hour,” before walking out. The classroom is silent except for Tara struggling to contain the squeaky inhales from her strained lungs, desperate to release a sob. She’s not even completely sure what she did wrong, but she’s so embarrassed she’s pretty sure she just wants to die. “Come on, Tara, let’s go talk outside,” Ms. Jacobs is nodding her head toward the doorway, and she follows numbly. Once the door is closed, she expects to hear an eruption of laughter from inside, but it’s just a sudden flow of low whispers. “Are you okay?” She shrugs, squeaking one final time before the built-up sob comes out, which earns a hug from her teacher. “He shouldn’t have said all that. He shouldn’t have embarrassed you in front of them. He only did that because he was embarrassed.” “--But-- why? Embarrassed of-- of-- wha--t?” Ms. Jacobs pulls back to look at her. “Tara...” When she can’t do anything but stare blankly, still blinking away tears, she lets out a sigh. “You really don’t get it?” “I-- I guess it was my-- boobs? But I-- didn’t know anything looked bad, I-- didn’t do anything different, I-- didn’t even think I had boobs.” Ms. Jacobs is quiet for a moment. “Do you have any bras?” “No-- I never-- I’ve never bought any...” “Your mom’s never gotten you any? She’s never talked to you about this?” Tara doesn’t want to say that her ‘mom’ isn’t her real one, that she hasn’t seen the real one since she was eight, that she’s never had this kind of conversation with anyone. She just shakes her head. The woman sighs again. “Looks like she’ll have to today. I’m sorry it had to happen like this. Come on, let’s get it over with.” Tara pulls her jacket on as she follows her down the hall, jamming tissues into her eyes and avoiding the stares of everyone they pass. --- When she’s in her substitute mom’s car, picked up after the uncomfortable phone call, heading for the store, she gets another earful. “What the hell were you thinking? A white shirt without a bra?” “I don’t have--” “I don’t care, you’re not blind! You should’ve seen a problem when you looked in the damn mirror! You can’t show up in public looking like a cheap slut!” Tara presses her knuckles into her lips into her teeth as she stares out the window. “I didn’t know I had to spell everything out for you, you’re twelve years old. You should know women-- self-respecting women-- don’t walk around looking like that.” Tears are rolling again, but the mascara’s just about gone, so it doesn’t really matter. “Do you have any idea what kind of example that sets for Isabella? She looks up to you! Next thing you know, those damn Barbies are gonna be walking around with their tits out! It’s probably gonna take a while for your principal to get that image out of his head.” She wants to open the car door, tumble down the sloping grass on the side of the freeway, curl up in a drainage ditch, and die there-- hopefully, whoever found her body would be able to call the police without getting all flustered about her cold, dead boobs. “Are you listening to me?” She flinches when the woman reaches across the glovebox and grabs her arm, nodding quickly, more tears squeezing out against her will. She quickly lets go, places her hand on the back of her head more gently. “I’m sorry-- I’m sorry. That was too much. I’m not mad at you, I’m just embarrassed. And concerned. You don’t wanna end up like your mom, do you?”

It doesn’t take her long to figure out that she’s gay. 

One of the seniors in her debate class sophomore year, Emily, takes the way men look at her and bends it into something softer, kinder, rooted in more than her body. She tells her as she’s walking to her next class one day that she’s ‘cool for an underclassman’ and should hang out with her and her friends some time. And apparently, the invitation is sincere, because she’s at Emily’s house that Friday night-- having told her latest set of parents that she’s spending the night with a girl they’ve seen around the church a few times. She’s surprised to see they have alcohol ( maybe she should’ve expected it from a bunch of rich teenagers in a boring town, but none of the kids she’s hung out with have ever done that. ) She hasn’t been around alcohol-- at least this kind-- in years, distinctly able to remember how her dad smelled when he fell asleep in his big chair and she climbed up in it with him when her mom wasn’t home and she didn’t want to have to put herself to bed. Blushing, she admits she doesn’t really drink-- but quickly adds “so I should probably start with wine, right?” when everyone groans. Emily flashes a smile and hands her a bottle of white and a solo cup. “Smart girl,” she murmurs, and the curl of her lips when she says it makes Tara glow just a little. The other kids start snickering when she fills the cup almost to the top-- shit, was it too much? But Emily just takes the bottle back and pours one to match. “She’s got it, chill out. Right, babe?” She pretends it’s the first swallow of wine that turns her cheeks red, and nods. Emily is giving her That Look, the better version of a man’s, like she’s seeing her through appreciative eyes, like she wants her for more than the shape of her chest, waist, hips. She’s pretty sure she’s-- flirting-- and if that’s true, she’s also pretty sure she wants to do it back. Halfway through the cup, she’s giggling at everything Emily says, even letting out a snort at one point. When they’re both done with their oversized portions, Emily holds up a finger and fills about a quarter of their cups with something stronger. Tara tries not to make a face when she tastes it, because everyone is watching and she’s the youngest one and-- she swallows with just an audible exhale, and there’s a collective noise of approval: a couple cheers, a couple okay!s, one damn, the baby can hang. Emily takes a sip and leans over and her lips are so close and Tara can feel her heartbeat across every inch of her skin and she closes the distance, shocked when Emily’s mouthful of alcohol finds her tongue-- she nearly spits it out, nearly chokes, but manages to get it down, pushing her back playfully afterwards. “Are you trying to kill me?” Emily wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, eyes glinting. “Nah. Just making sure you were into it.” At four that morning, after they’ve spent two hours making out and drinking and occasionally stumbling out into the snow to look at the sky and the stars, coming back in to snuggle up by the fireplace, Emily snakes her arm around Tara’s waist. “So you’re my girlfriend now, right?” Tara glances over to make sure she’s not kidding. It’s not like they know each other super well, but even with her brain half-jumbled, it makes a strange sort of sense. And someone is picking her-- how can she say no? “Mmm-hmm,” she hums, surprised by the contentment that washes over her, and parts her lips slightly as Emily leans back in for more. 

Unfortunately, even when her gayness becomes visible to other people, there’s still no lack of interested men. And Emily’s even less happy about that than Tara is.

They’re standing in the hallway in front of Tara’s English class during a passing period when one of the guys in her class stops in front of them. He seems to struggle to find a good reason to say something for a moment, but finally asks if she did the essay that’s due in class. She nods, a little awkwardly. “Uh-- yeah,” She lets out a quiet fraction of a laugh. “Didn’t want to uh, fail.” He nods quickly, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Yeah-- me too. Did you think the book was sad?” Emily moves closer, arm circling Tara’s waist, sending a message. “Yeah-- obviously. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t think so-- I guess it was pretty good, though.” He nods again. “Yeah, cool, uh-- see you in there,” and with that, he ducks into the classroom. Emily rolls her eyes and Tara glances at her arm. “You didn’t have to do that-- he’s annoying, but harmless.” “Oh, come on-- didn’t you see him? He was taking your shirt off with his eyes!” “I don’t think--” “Trust me, babe, he was. He was staring.” Tara sighs with a shrug. “Alright. Like I said, annoying but harmless. He wouldn’t do anything.” “So? I don’t like guys looking at you like that. You’re my baby, not theirs.” Any doubt or annoyance melts at that-- being protected, valued-- that’s worth something. “Yeah, I-- only like for you to take my shirt off with your eyes.” “Good,” Emily grins and squeezes her waist lightly. “--Have you worn that one before?” Tara glances down at the varsity-striped sweater, loose, V-necked. “I just got it the other day.” Emily is quiet for a moment, hand still lightly rubbing Tara’s side. “It’s cute. I like it on you. But maybe you could just wear it around me. So guys like him won’t get any ideas.” “--Seriously?” Emily looks vaguely hurt, glances away for a moment. “Maybe I’m just stupid and insecure--” Tara almost physically jumps. “No! No, you-- you’re not. You’re right. This one’s just for you. --I’m just for you.” Emily brightens again at that, pulls her into a tighter hug, kissing the side of her head. “You’re the best. I’m so lucky you’re all mine. You’re meeting me in the parking lot after fourth, right?” Tara nods minimally, not wanting to disrupt the embrace. “Yeah. Your house, right?” Emily still doesn’t know her parents are fakes. And they don’t know their fake daughter is gay. And if she can help it, neither party is going to find out. “Yep.” When the warning bell starts up, she dives for Tara’s collarbone, eliciting a yelp when she bites down, sucking hard for a moment before she pulls away. A teacher comes down the hall just in time to miss it. Tara looks down at the light mark, then at the older girl with wide eyes. “What the hell was that?” “That was to remind that dumb boy you’re spoken for-- and to get you excited for this afternoon.” She can only imagine what the second part means, so she ignores the first and shakes her head with an exhale of a laugh. “Whatever, I’ll see you at three.” --- They’re on one of Emily’s expensive couches, making out, when Tara’s phone vibrates in her pocket. Tara wants to ignore it, placing a hand on the side of her girlfriend’s face to keep her in the moment-- but after the second notification, Emily is already reaching for it, slipping it out to look at it. “Em,” She complains, trying to pull her lips back to her own. “If you’re not gonna look, I will. What if your mom’s trying to tell you something?” Tara rolls her eyes: “Well, is it her?” Emily shakes her head with a scoff and holds it up. “Highly doubt it.” It’s from an unsaved number, but there are a couple earlier texts-- clearly, it’s someone she knows but doesn’t like enough to make them a contact. The newest text reads ‘hey Tara. its me Josh from english. just wondering if you would want to hang out some time. i know ur doing some kind of lesbian thing right now and that’s cool and hot and all but maybe i’m your type of dude and you don’t know yet. if not i get it and it’s fine. also do you sell any kind of pics?’ Tara can’t do anything but laugh, so forceful it’s almost a cough. “Aw man, Em, you were right. Looks like he had some trouble mentally getting my tits all the way out, though. He needs some help with the visuals.” Emily isn’t laughing. She’s typing. Tara quickly regains her composure to watch. “You don’t have to...” She trails off as she follows her fingers pounding the mini keyboard. ‘hey, jagoff, this is tara’s girlfriend. she’s not *doing some kind of lesbian thing* she’s fucking gay and she doesn’t want to hang out with your lame ass. and no, she doesn’t sell pictures. just go look at pornhub like every other pathetic loser man who can’t get ass. leave her alone, lose her number, fuck off.’ Tara doesn’t have to ask again to get that kiss once the text is sent, pushed back onto the couch, lips reconnecting almost immediately. She’s dying to breathe when Emily finally lets up ( for some reason, she never breathes through her nose while they’re kissing, like all the air gets sucked out of her before it can enter, overpowered by a more dominating force. ) “You’re mine, right?” Tara nods: “You know that.” “I just-- don’t wanna lose you. You’re the best thing I’ve ever had.” Tara finds both her hands and laces their fingers together. “You’re not gonna lose me. I won’t leave you.” ( It’s usually the other way around. ) Emily gets up at that, pulls on Tara’s hands to lead her into her bedroom, shuts and locks the door before pushing her up against it and diving into another kiss, harder, a little surprising. Then they find the bed. The varsity sweater comes off. Tara’s cold at first, but the kisses that start trailing down her neck resolve that. She doesn’t stop her until all their clothes are piled on the floor, and she suddenly realizes she doesn’t know what’s coming next. “Wait, what-- what are we--” Emily touches the light purple spot near her clavicle. “I’m gonna worship you. If you want me to.” Tara’s never been worshipped. Catcalled, yes, ogled, yes, inserted in a weird fantasy, probably yes, but never worshipped. She decides-- after a few more kisses-- that’s something she wants.

As Christmas approaches, Tara starts to worry about how she’s supposed to pay off what she owes Emily for loving her. 

She’s not about to ask her fake parents for money-- not that they have as much as Em’s family in the first place. She’s never had her own money, or when she did, it was in small installments, given to her by guardians over the years when she went to the mall with groups of girls who decided they could absorb her. She certainly doesn’t have any saved ( though some of the seventeen-year olds do, and occasionally, when she’s not with a family, they remind her of that fact. What’s she going to do when she’s eighteen? ) and she isn’t sure how she’s supposed to get it. Even if she managed to find a job, she probably wouldn’t get paid in time for Christmas-- and if she did, it wouldn’t be enough for Emily’s rich ass. A part-time minimum wage check wouldn’t even cover one of the outfits she wears to school. She starts trying to figure out what she wants-- maybe she can find some kind of modification, like-- trying to recreate a sweater she wants by hand from Youtube tutorials-- or something. She’ll have to think on it for a while. “You know, most girlfriends drop hints about what they want to their significant other. Sadly, I can’t read your mind.” “I do drop hints. They’re just subtle. And you know what I like. If you read my mind, you’d just be seeing a lot of yourself.” Tara can’t help but grin at that-- but it doesn’t do much for her restless thoughts. She does know what she likes. Nice shoes, overpriced clothes, expensive jewelry. Would she let it slide if she got her something small and pathetic? Probably. But would she feel like shit for months? Definitely. Maybe she can catch one of the subtle hints and it’ll be smaller than she’s expecting, dropped with an unemployed high school student’s budget in mind. But sure enough, every lead over the span of a week is dead-ended at fucking expensive-- she must think her fake parents-- which she thinks are her real ones-- have more money than they do, and by extension, that Tara has more money than she does. She’s just about decided she’ll have to search for some really cool things at a thrift store and alter them so they’re custom-- maybe she can even put in a tag saying it’s from her and that she loves her-- when a thought sneaks in as she’s going to sleep the night before the last week of the fall semester. It’s not a good thought, even to her half-awake brain, but it’s a thought, which she’s been lacking in. It comes in the form of a poorly written text: ‘also do you sell any kind of pics?’ and she almost writes herself off as an idiot for even considering for half a second. She hates knowing men want that from her, that they see her like that, like a walking pair of boobs ( haven’t they, since she was twelve and didn’t even know she had any? ) She hates being an object, probably even more than she hates feeling invisible. Being noticed but not valued is worse than never being noticed at all. But they do it anyway, mentally-- or in reality, if she’s wearing a skirt and they can find the right angle at the bottom of a staircase. Why shouldn’t she use that to her advantage, in this case, to get the one person who does value her something nice? She’s motionless for a few moments, staring into the darkness of the room before she finally grabs her phone and scrolls until she finds that unsaved number, still in the text history. ‘hey’ - ‘this is random but did you still want to buy pictures from me?’ There’s no response for a few minutes, and she assumes he’s asleep-- but as she’s putting her phone back on the nightstand, it vibrates. ‘for real?’ - ‘this isn’t emily is it? i’m not looking for trouble ma’am’ - ‘lol’ - ‘it’s really tara?’ She rolls her eyes at his stupid joking, regrets the whole thing for a second, but pushes that down. ‘yes it’s really me. i need some money and if you’re still interested just tell me what you want to see and i’ll tell you if i can make it happen.’ She’s setting boundaries in her head: what she’ll show, what she won’t, what this desperate, horny boy is allowed to see when he responds again. ‘hell yeah!!!! see i knew you were cool. your girl has a stick up her butt haha no offense’ - ‘boobs is great’ - ‘but like with your face too cuz your hot’ ( she cringes at the your-- and just about everything else he says. ) - ‘maybe ass too?’ When he’s silent for a while, she assumes he’s done making requests. ‘okay. boobs and face $10 each, ass $6 each.’ - ‘you have any friends who would want some too? please don’t send them to whoever wants them, let me do it so i get paid okay?’ - ‘i’m kind of trusting you here.’ Her heart is pounding and she’s considering the hundreds of ways this could go bad. Especially since it’s not even fucking legal. Shit shit shit-- ‘deal’ - ‘how bout 3 boobs and face and 2 ass’ - ‘and duh i know people who would want them. don’t worry i’ll give them your number not your pics ;)’ She wants to gag, but-- in a way, she’s relieved. ‘perfect thank you’ - ‘i’ll send them tomorrow evening probably, i’ll work on taking them after school.’ - ‘going to bed now though. glad we worked this out.’ He sends a ‘goodnight ;)’ but she leaves it unopened until she sends the pictures the next day. Within the week, she’s made $120 off of stupid sophomore boys who have too much money for their own good. --- At Emily’s house a few days before Christmas, she has a silver Pandora ring and earrings to match in her bag, planning to pull them out after they’ve fucked, which is clearly part of Emily’s plan based on the silk sheets on the bed and candles burning nearby. She pours up some cinnamon vanilla Bailey’s first, applies a coat of lipstick to match her red off-the-shoulder sweater ( also reserved for Em. ) As she steps into the bedroom, it’s clear something’s off. Way off. Emily’s shoulders are tense and her face is hard. For a moment, Tara thinks she doesn’t see her there-- but when her head snaps up, eyes blazing, she knows she’s wrong, way wrong, shit, fuck, what the fuck-- she’s holding her phone. Her heart drops so fast and hard it makes her step back, she nearly drops the drinks, she thinks she might throw up. “Em--” “You know what I found.” “I--” “You know. Don’t fucking look at me like that, you know. You know!” She’s suddenly eating all her new lipstick off, stomach twisting, eyes filling. “What the hell!” The outburst makes her jump so hard a little of the Bailey’s splashes on her hand, drips on the carpet. “What the fuck are you doing, sending this shit to random guys at-- midnight, 1 am, whatever, four days ago? What, you need their attention, too? You want them, too? You’re not even a real lesbian, are you?” Tara can’t find any words, can’t move, lips pressed together so hard they’re tingling. “Say something!” She shakes her head, wants to disappear. “Say something, you fucking liar! What’s your excuse? Give me a fucking excuse!” She can’t tell her it was for her. That’s some kind of fucked up, right, to put it back on her? To say she had to do it to make her happy? “Stop shaking your head and say! Words!” “I--” Emily is quiet for a moment, just fuming, waiting for more. “I’m-- sorry.” That wasn’t what she wanted. She gets up off the bed, storms over, holds the phone up to her face-- it’s a $10 picture, one of the more recent ones. “What the fuck! What the fuck!” Tara is about ninety-nine percent sure she’s going to vomit when a slap knocks it right back down her throat-- and the drinks out of her hands-- and her whole body backwards, stumbling, almost landing on her ass. A word is ringing in her ear, barely audible over the deafening, repeating clapping sound: whore, she thinks it is. Emily confirms when she lets it slip again: “fake lesbian whore.” She’s still holding her phone, scrolling. “God, how many fucking people knew you’d show your tits to literally anyone? Looks like the whole damn school, except for me. How about your mom, did she know? Did your little Christian mom and dad know you were letting me and the whole JV football team fuck you?” “I wasn’t--” “I don’t care! I told you I wanted you to myself! What’s your mom’s name, Julie, right? Julie... here she is, ‘hi, I’m going to a friend’s house for a Christmas party today but I’ll be home by nine if that’s okay. Have fun at your work party!’ At least I know I’m not the only one who’s been lied to.” It takes a moment before her tapping on the screen sinks in, the waves of pain in her cheek distracting her. “Wait-- what are you--” “Sent.” “No-- no-- what’s sent-- what-- what did you do?” “Nothing you wouldn’t. Just sent a few pictures.” “No-- no, fuck--” She sinks to her knees, drops her head in her hands, too overwhelmed to do much else. Does she cry, vomit, scream? All three? “Aw, babe, do you feel pretty fucking stupid? Yeah, me too. Get out of my fucking house.” She glances up for a moment, maybe just to see if this is really happening, if that’s really Emily talking, and immediately ducks again when the phone sails straight toward her. “Please...” Her face is crumpling, lungs contracting, heart aching. “Please what? What do you fucking want from me?” “I wasn’t-- I wasn’t cheating on you, I-- I needed money--” “For what? You have me, I can always spot you, you know that! When have I not been there for you?” Tara still can’t find the words to say it was all for her-- it feels wrong, and-- she wants it to not be true, she wants to be able to buy her favorite person in the fucking world a Christmas gift without selling fucking nudes. “I’m sorry. I’m just-- sorry, I-- don’t know what else to say. I love you, I only love you, I only care about you. Look, I didn’t even say anything to these guys, all I sent was the pictures, I-- only love you. I’m sorry.” Emily rubs her temples like she has a headache, like she’s the one whose entire fucking home life ( if it can be called that ) is about to explode, whose cheek is throbbing, whose dignity is destroyed. “Can you-- please forgive me, please, please, i just need another chance, please, I-- I’m begging.” “The begging’s only cute when you’re naked,” She snaps. “Maybe you’re only cute when you’re naked. This is just pathetic. Get out of my house, I’m not telling you again.” It takes her over a minute just to stand up, like a physical weight is pushing her down, and even then it takes a while longer to grab her phone and bag and head back down the stairs. She stops in the kitchen and grabs the rest of the Bailey’s and a bottle of rum ( even though the taste of both will make her think of Em, ) to shove in her bag, figuring she’s going to need it. After the fight, the conversation with her fake parents seems tame, manageable. They’re willing to accept the blackmail from a ‘friend’ story, but the rest is stumping them. “Why would you take pictures like this-- and send them to boys?” “...I dunno, I-- needed some money.” “You know, there are jobs out there. Real, honest jobs. For girls who respect themselves. This is so disappointing, Tara.” “...I know. I’m disappointed, too.” The fake mom actually wilts for a moment and reaches across the table to hold her hand then. It’s a fraction of a moment of comfort, and she tries to store it. But as she’s heading to her bedroom, she catches a remnant of the conversation that’s continuing without her: “You were pretty easy on her.” “Girls don’t sell pictures like that unless they already feel pretty bad about themselves, Harry. And you know what her mother was doing when she first went into the system.” “Mmm.” “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

September 10th, 2015: her birthday gift is an increase in her hours at the diner. 

No longer in the system, she drops out of high school, notifies her boss so she might make enough money to keep her above water. She has a thousand saved from the last year and a half of work and selling back Emily’s unworn jewelry, and she thinks her $5 an hour plus tips paychecks might pull her through if there are enough $5 hours, enough tipping customers. She starts out in a tiny apartment with a couple of roommates, other girls from the system, but one moves out with a boyfriend within two weeks and the other completely skips town, leaving her to pay the full $400 on her own. And she’s already paid $300 for a burn on her hand from a skillet-- not covered by the diner, since she refused the health insurance she couldn’t afford. Suddenly, the facts that she 1) isn’t good at anything, 2) doesn’t have a diploma, and 3) doesn’t know anyone consistent to help her, support her, love her, catch up to her-- all at once. She has the apartment for the month, but where she goes after that, she has no fucking clue. She stays up until three every night calculating and recalculating to figure out how much she needs to earn to stay somewhere after every unexpected expense: a pack of sinus medicine is an extra $12, a bottle of shitty vodka to put her to sleep from a third party is $14, a new tube of silver sulfadiazine when she re-burns her hand is $8, and by October, she can’t make the payment, and has to relocate to a park bench. She tries a women’s shelter, but they don’t let her bring in alcohol-- and as much as she hates it, that’s a deal-breaker. After a week of sleeping outside, showering at the diner, and trying not to cry the whole fucking shift, the boss says he has to let her go. She tells him she doesn’t have an address to send the final check to, and he avoids her eyes when he says she can come in to pick it up the next Friday. She needs something new, and fast. She’s already beyond tired of not knowing who’s walking past the bench, if they have a gun, if she’s gonna wake up drugged in someone’s van-- so tired, in fact, that she goes back to the women’s shelter, deciding she can drink when she’s not there. She texts another girl from the system one night and sends another message her stomach twists in response to. ‘hey, it’s tara. i hope this text sends okay, my service is probably going to stop any day now. what did you say your boss’s name was? and where can i find him? i think i need a job.’ This affirmative response is even more of a horrific relief than the last: life-saving, but soul-crushing. She meets the pimp two days later, and checks into a motel the night after. She falls into the squeaky bed each morning and passes out before she can even think of the shame that builds with every night.