T loves Kindra
He spray painted the words on the side of a random shed. Fluorescent pink screamed against green corrugated metal. A little ginger bitch who lived in a goldenrod trailer saw the declaration, and she promptly told my mother. This girl’s nickname was Saginaw News, because too often you didn’t even know your own goddamned business until she hollered. Once, she heard me say “fuck,” and I had to race her to my trailer to make sure she couldn’t tell on me. I was pretty impressive on my feet as a teen; you should have seen me run when Saginaw News caught me smoking.
My mother was passionately protective; she wanted to prevent any and all trailerparkal tendencies from developing in her daughters. The kids knew every single thing my sister and I were not allowed to do. Swearing was one of those things, but I would have survived my mother’s disappointment in learning I had acquired a potty-mouth. Smoking would have warranted a severe grounding. But boys? Shit. Boys, all of them, were Satan incarnate. I was only permitted to spend time alone with one boy prior to turning sixteen, and that was because my mother believed he was gay. Given my mother’s life experience, I knew she didn’t keep boys away from me for the fun of being mean.
Keeping my clothes on was easy for me as a young teen, though I did feel out of place–embarrassed among the circle I socialized with in Contaminated Manor; kids were always sucking face, sucking cock, finger fucking, fucking fucking. My mother had me so afraid of sexual contact of any kind, I freaked the crap out when T first kissed me in the summer grove. It wasn’t even a French kiss. I was only thirteen, but I felt like I was supposed to let him ram his tongue into the back of my throat. I wanted to let him; T was really cute with his blond skater haircut and fudge brownie eyes. Gaaahhh…
When my mother approached me with questions about T loves Kindra, I feigned stupidity. Funny, she believed me when I said I didn’t have a boyfriend. She always believed me. But! every time she got wind that a boy liked me, she sharpened up on her supervision. Like, I had to stay in our own yard supervision. And she had spies working for her when she was at work. I swear, she hired Saginaw News.
We lived in Contaminated Manor for two years before moving into a fancy trailer park with my mother’s boyfriend. That’s when shit got REAL. Another memoir for another time.