text: They think I did it. That we did it. Did IT. I was seven when I met Steve for the first time. He was picking up my mom for a date and I answered the door when the bell rang. He had flowers in his hand, yellow daisies mixed with the regular white ones tied with a blue ribbon. His other hand was behind his back. He said hello and “surprise, this is for you!” and held his hand out in front of me. He opened his fingers and inside there was a bracelet made with pink beads. I just stood there and whispered thank you. With a slow smile, he asked if he could come in and, turning red, I opened the door, partly hiding behind it. Mom was still upstairs, probably trying on her 20th outfit with the ones she discarded in a pile on her bed. Her lips would be bright red from the lipstick she saves for special occasions. I wished I’d brushed my hair. He came inside and went straight to the kitchen like he’d been here before. I watched him from the hall as he opened the cupboard, took out a tall glass, filled it with water and put the bouquet inside. He placed it on the small table where mom and I eat breakfast and sometimes supper. Without turning around, he said ‘now come in here and let me put this bracelet on your pretty little wrist”. Mom came down and with her fake smile and a high pitched voice and asked “what’s going on in here? Steve, I see you’ve met Lizzie”. I showed her my wrist with the new bracelet and she said “why Steve, you are just the sweetest! Lizzie, we are going out to dinner. I left you some chicken in the fridge. You can go next door to Mrs. Pratt’s if you need anything. Don’t open the door for anyone”. Before long, Steve was living with us. He would smile at me between bites of cereal at breakfast, walk past me from the bathroom as I was heading in to get ready for school. He’d be wet from the shower and only have a towel on, pat the top of my head as he walked by. He worked days and my mom worked the lunch shift, and sometimes dinner, at a restaurant in town. Steve would be there when I got home from school. He would help me with my homework and then sometime we would do things around the house for mom or go grocery shopping. Usually though, we would go outside and walk around the neighborhood. As I got older, he would teach me how to play basketball, standing behind me guiding my arm for a layup or standing close to me with his arms circled around me, guarding me. So close I could feel his breath on my face. By the time I was in middle school, I was taller than all the other girls and even some of the boys. I made the basketball team and Steve would come to all my games. Mom would come when she could. I could hear Steve cheering me on. Mom didn’t like sports very much and didn’t really understand them. I don’t think she even watched me that much or knew if we won or lost. Walking to the car, he would say “way to go Kiddo!”. Steve and I would talk about the game all the way home, He would talk about missed three point opportunities or what I could do to improve foul shots. Mom would stare out the window. I knew she felt left out but I didn’t care. Steve was my biggest supporter. I could talk to him about anything. Sometimes, when he worked overtime and had extra money, he would buy me a pair of jeans or some nail polish. Mom would say he bought me more gifts than he bought her but he would just laugh and say “come on Maggie, you know you are my special girl”. Now when I got home from school Steve would be there with a snack and a plan. We would take long drives to neighborhoods with big houses, green lawns and swing sets in the back for the kids, Some even had pools. He would say “Lizzie, work hard and you can live here someday. You can be anything you want”. He’d look at me and smile. He had a sweet smile, one that really made me feel loved, secure. If the weather was bad, we would sit on the couch and watch TV. I’d get sleepy sometimes and lay my head on his shoulder or in his lap and wake up to the door slamming loudly shut when mom came home, angry that dinner wasn’t ready. By the time I was in high school, I was still one of the tallest and still playing basketball. I was pretty confident on the court, but awkward everywhere else. My mom was an expert with her makeup and when I tried it on, I looked like a clown, One time, she caught me trying on her red lipstick and said it wasn’t my color. Actually, what she said was “ that color looks awful on you. who are you trying to impress anyway, Steve?”’. I only wear pink lip gloss now and only in school. All my friends talked about was boys. Who they thought was cute, who they liked, who they wished would ask them to the dance. I didn’t want anyone to ask me to the dance. The boys at school were so immature. They could learn a few things from Steve. He knew how to listen and didn’t try to snap my bra when I walked by. He could wipe away a tear and make you smile so quickly, you couldn’t remember why you were upset in the first place. I went to the dance with my friends. The dances were in the gym with just a few decorations and tired teachers as chaperones. It was easy to sneak in alcohol and this time, most of the boys basketball team had small bottles in their pockets. They had some respect for me because of my skills on the court so they invited my friends and I to go out to the parking lot to drink. I didn’t want to go but my friends were excited and Laurie was begging to go because she had a crush on one of the players. While they were all flirting easily, I was by myself, drinking vodka and mountain dew. No one noticed when I left to walk home. A block before I got to my house, I puked in the bushes. Steve was waiting up and could tell right away what happened. He put the stray hair that was hanging in my face gently behind my ear, grabbed my hand and led me upstairs. He gave me a glass of water and some aspirin, told me to take a quick shower and get some rest. Mom was working late he said so we could keep this between us. I woke up late the next morning with a headache like I have never had before, I went downstairs ready to thank Steve with a silent smile but he wasn’t there. Mom was at the table with a cup of coffee. She barely looked at me as I walked in. As I walked by her to get some juice out of the fridge, she grabbed my robe so hard I almost fell. She groaned “how could you? How could you take the one good thing in my life?’. I had no idea what she was talking about. She threw pictures at me and they spread across the floor. I bent to get them and as I was picking them up, I recognized the bathroom. Me as a little girl in the bathtub. Who took these? Then there were pictures of me in my bed. 8 years old, cuddling with a stuffed rabbit Steve had given me. 11 years old in one of my mothers fancy negligees I tried on and fell asleep in. Me, last night, passed out on top of the covers, naked with the towel down by my feet. Suddenly I heard my mom screaming that I disgusted her. That I had been trying to steal Steve from her since I was in middle school. She said she couldn’t blame him, the way I always tried to look older, giggle at his jokes. The sexy looks I was always giving him. “GET OUT” she screamed. “NOW”. I ran upstairs to put clothes on and as quickly as I could, stuffed a few things in my book bag and left, wondering where Steve was.