Holly Hope

Slut girl

CHAPTER ONE

As far back as I could remember, we'd always been poor. I can still recall the Christmas that I got an orange and a toothbrush for presents – that was all, just an orange and a toothbrush. I was six, in first grade, anti when school was back in session after New Year's again, I made up a fantastic list of imaginary presents to brag about to my schoolmates, rather than admit that I got nothing worth mentioning. Then I had to lie and tell them that the presents were so expensive that my mother wouldn't let me bring them out of the house to play with, which (I hoped) would explain why they were unable to see my new treasures.

This was the pattern of my first few early years. My father never came back from Korea. He wasn't killed there, I found out later – he just never came back home. Deserted by him, my mother had a steady stream of men coming, staying, and departing. Looking back, I can see that Mom was a born loser in life, and her succession of lovers were natural total losers, too.

By the time I was ten my brother Rodney, who was five years older than I, had been sent to reform school for joy-riding in a stolen car, and I had resigned myself to the fact that Mom looked on me only as a burden, a nuisance, and a useless expense. She constantly admonished me to knock before even entering our own front door, lest I catch her and her current lover fucking in the daytime in the living room. This had happened a few times, so I soon got in the habit of whistling or singing as I came home from school and walked slowly toward the house, to give them ample warning. Usually, rather than hurry home to get the verbal abuse that she heaped on me constantly and unfairly, I'd stay at a friend's house and play until almost dark.

I began to live in a fantasy world, trying to compensate for the empty, love-starved existence that I had at home. At home – that's a real laugh. I had no home, not one worthy of the name. I guess that's why, when Paul Sorenson came to see Mom the first time, and gently and politely sat down and talked to me for a few minutes while she got ready to go out with him, my heart flew out to him. He conversed with me as if he really liked me, was interested in my schoolwork, and treated me like a grownup. This was a completely strange and different behavior compared to most of Mom's drunken boyfriends, and when they left the house, I waltzed around, smiling and happy that someone cared, someone noticed me, someone, finally, took an interest in me.

A couple of days later, Mom told me that Paul was going to move in with us, and I was to address him as "Uncle Paul," and when he brought his luggage in, he handed me a little box, wrapped in pretty paper, and said, "Here, Sheri, for you. It matches your pretty blue eyes," I unwrapped the box, and it contained a beautiful nylon blouse and a blue hair ribbon. I was so tickled and happy that I threw my arms around him and almost cried as I thanked him.

"O.K., knock it off." My mother's voice brought me back to reality. "Get your hands off her, Paul."

I took my gift and hurried to my room, determined not to let my crabby mom spoil this delightful, treasured moment. I put the blouse and hair ribbon on and preened and admired myself in the mirror, posing sideways and throwing back my head and shoulders to accent the buds that were just starting to develop on my chest. I practiced my haughty smile, with my eyes half-closed, imitating the femme fatale look of the movie stars I admired so avidly. Movies had been one of my major refuges and fantasylands, giving me through the early years of my life the escape and dreams that my heart craved.

And now I had received my first gift from a man. My mind took flight and soared at the intimacy of handsome Paul giving me the present, and I even secretly reveled in the thought of my mom being angry at him for showing me the attention.

In the next few days, I tried to show Paul in a million little ways that I liked him. I shined his shoes, served him double desserts, washed his car – all the little favors that I could extend to him without Mom either noticing or caring about. His flashing smile, his murmured "Thanks a lot, my little angel" – these were reward enough for my hungry inner soul, and at night I lay for hours dreaming while still awake, of the passionate love affair that we would someday consummate.

All I knew of love was from the movies and a few novels that I'd read. The tenderness, the favors and gifts, the devotion and happiness that naturally followed – these, I was convinced, were love, and love was what I wanted, needed, had to have. My mental fictions, the impossible situations and unrealistic ideas I had, all contributed to make me a willing and eager partner in what happened next. Little did I know.