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I […]. I was the luckiest girl in school back then, at least within the cool crowd. Steve was the hottest and baddest and meanest boy we knew. Because he wore a Raiders football team cap and coat, the other cool guys did too. Same for his oxblood Doc Martens and the Grateful Dead patches on his backpack. G, for Jerry Garcia. B, for bitches. Fucking retards, I told them. No way. He laughed and ruffled my hair and put me in a playful headlock.

But after school, back at his place, he dragged me down the basement stairs and shoved my head in the toilet.

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I never spoke to him that way again, but he still shoved my head in the toilet when he was pissed off. He certainly never learned anything about how to treat a girl from his mean old daddy; his mama had more black eyes than a family of raccoons. I felt sorry for him. I called it our rainbow sex. After the storm. There was a drama in it all that turned me on. He was mean to lots of other people at school, too.

Especially the geeks and the special ed kids. Joe had red hair and was real chubby and laughed a lot. Steve made Joe smoke cigarettes sometimes, which always made him gag. It was awful to watch.

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But no one dared tell Steve to knock it off. Eventually, I stopped feeling sorry for Steve, but then it was too late. I got knocked up in grade twelve and had to marry the guy. Everyone was happy for me, even my friends, who knew he threw me around. My mom was thrilled, too. One less mouth to feed for a single mum of three on disability. It was something to celebrate. We got married in May. I wore a pale yellow maternity gown with a long train with pink plastic flowers attached to it, and Steve wore a suit with his Doc Martens and Raiders cap. I loved it. It had three bedrooms, a basement, two bathrooms, and a shower.

It had a backyard big enough for a fire-pit and an above-ground pool.


And a dog. Steve agreed to the fire-pit, but said the pool was a waste of money and space.

And he hated dogs. We had the after-grad party in our backyard. I wore my wedding dress with the train cut off. It rained at some point, which caused a mudslide.

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One girl, a geek named Cheryl, got so drunk that she passed out by the fire-pit and Steve encouraged everyone to spit on her. I remember it clearly because my water broke, four weeks early, at the exact moment some guy hawked-a-loogie right on her muddy face. I believed him, too, and was shitting-myself embarrassed. The birth was smooth enough, thank God, but Steve Junior came out one angry baby.

He never stopped crying! From the very beginning, he was as cranky and unpredictable as his daddy. Once we got home, the two of them were like angry wasps that kept pissing each other off. Junior would cry, so Steve would start stomping around, and then Junior would squeal louder, and then Steve would stomp louder. It never stopped.

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No matter what I did, one of them was always buzzing around me threatening to sting and begging for extra attention. The first three months were the worst. One time, he grabbed my chapped nipple and twisted it as hard as he could. Right in front of a screaming Junior. But, unlike me, who was packing on the pounds from trading my ciggies for cookies, he was as scrawny as a stick of macaroni.

My doctor tried to talk me out of having it. He told me I had choices. But he was full of bologna. I had about as many choices as any other financially-dependent-desperate-teenage-mama married to a bible-thumping-when-he felt-like it-mean-mother-fucker-like Steve who would never agree to cough up the cash for me to go all the way to a big city to kill the fruit of his loins.


I know I cried a lot. And ate a lot. I should know, I worked there on and off, too.

I heard a rumor that one of the bakers gave him Boston cream hand-jobs in exchange for day shifts. Better her than me, I thought. Unlike Junior, Luke was the easiest baby in the world.