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Show in my father's house/ 280 Resentment flared, ignited by fear. He wasn't such a good driver after. "I've never had a chance to be selfish! None of Mama's kids have! Oh, maybe she lets us have our way, but as far as you're concerned, what someone else wants is always more important. What Hannah's children want doesn't count. We're nothing to you - nothing!" My father threw on the brakes. The car skidded and jerked. A sudden snap of my neck, a burning of my cheek. I dropped my head, then looked up. Had he hit me? Really hit me? He had hit me. Slapped my face. His words still rang in my head, burned into my heart. "You hussy!" Why had he called me that? His words seared, smoking in my mind's eye, a brand on my self. My mother sat in front, her head bowed. She said nothing to defend me. But she held herself rigidly, as stunned as if he had struck her, instead of me. Tears dripped through my fingers as my father drove us home, recanting my obligations: A new school, more time at home helping my mother, my religious meetings. When my father stopped the car in my mother's driveway, I ran to the house, into my room. Then I heard him backing out of the driveway. He had not come to me, kissed me, said he was sorry, told me he loved me. He had so much love for near-strangers, but none for me. Hussy, was I? All right. I could accept that. The boys at school had another word for it. So that was why they called, wrote notes, invited me to parties. I paced the room, feeling electrified. I could feel my |
