Blame me, a woman STAR L E NE JOY PO RT I LLO
I. The first tea party I had was with a sixth grader. I was all of four years old, sprawled out on the lawn under the shade that his towering frame cast across me from our makeshift table. Nothing about that afternoon was worth noting, until he decided he no longer liked tea. From there, it was all a fast-paced blur: chasing a yellow butterfly, tickling, wobbly piggyback rides, tickling until my sides hurt, being shrouded by sheets hanging on a clothesline, tickling until I felt the need to gasp for sentiments I didn’t know the words to. The last thing I remembered thinking was how D’s chubby finger resembled a Wiggles marshmallow against the hem of my underwear as I sat on his lap. Later that night, Mother told me that I can only ever have tea parties with her, instead. II. My cheeks were ensnared between the principal’s clammy grip. She squeezed hard enough to parse my lips, but not the answers. The shy bruise under my chin juts out just enough to taunt her. “You were punched because you kicked his privates first,” she sentenced, hoarse and final. She cut out the part where P raised my uniform skirt over my head. III. A Name exists outside a word outside itself. Car honks, starved gazes, whispers of intent—they all contend with me.
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