Girlhood

         The Terrible Thing had happened, and it was all Valentina’s fault.
         Valentina was only fourteen, but she could easily be mistaken for a woman four years older. She had dark brown skin and thick black hair that spiraled out in all directions. The white boys at school called her exotic. She was a short little thing, but she had an ass that could give even Kim Kardashian a run for her money, and boobs so big they nearly flew off her chest if she tried to run in less than two sports bras—double bag so you don’t sag, her mom would say. Unlike most girls her age, puberty had hit Valentina like a train.
         But Valentina had never minded. In fact, she loved her body. She loved the way boys—and sometimes men—stared as she walked to school. She would blush shyly at the seniors who yelled, “Hey, mamacita!” at her in the hallway. She didn’t mind that once a week she would feel a firm hand on her butt and turn to find its owner grinning wryly at her. They were just boys being boys, and she liked boys.
         But Valentina’s mother did not like boys, and she especially did not like the way they looked at her niña, her baby girl. She was always telling Valentina she couldn’t wear those shorts or that shirt or put on makeup because it would “give the wrong impression.” Valentina didn’t understand what was so wrong about her impression. All she wanted was to wear eyeliner like the other girls.
         “No fourteen-year-old daughter of mine is going to school wearing makeup,” Mamá would say in her thick Colombian accent. “You’re too young. I didn’t wear makeup ’til I was eighteen. And go up to your room and put on real pants! You look like a hoochie in those shorts—half your butt is hanging out of them!”
         But Valentina wanted—no, she needed to wear makeup. How could she feel pretty without it? So every morning when her mom left for work, she would sneak into the makeup drawer and draw on a coat of eyeliner so thick it nearly reached her eyebrows. The boys at school would revel in her beauty, and then she would hurry home and wash it all off before Mamá returned.
         Much like her mother, Valentina’s teachers didn’t approve of her apparel either. One spring day her classroom became excessively hot, and, after seeing some of the other girls do it, Valentina removed her T-shirt to reveal the camisole underneath. Naturally, her male classmates stared, yet no more than usual. But her teacher, Mr. Collins, seeing this, turned red in the face and immediately called her to his desk. She approached him hesitantly, unsure of what she had done wrong.
         “Valentina, I won’t have my class disrupted because of your inappropriate attire,” he said, beginning to sweat as he tried to focus on anything other than her breasts, which seemed to be on the verge of escaping their prison of cloth. “Go to the dean’s office. Now.”
         When she met with the dean, he gave her a quick look up and down and declared that she had violated the dress code. When she attempted to argue that a few of the other girls in her class were in their tank tops and none of them had been sent to the dean, he ordered her to put her T-shirt back on and not to remove it for the duration of the school day. If she was ever caught in such distracting clothing again, he would be forced to call her mother and give her detention.
         Mamá would beat her ass if she ever got detention. Education mattered more than anything to Valentina’s mom. It was how she had finally managed to flee from an abusive husband, escape the slums of Colombia, secure a job as an accountant for Ernst & Young, and buy a beautiful house in the suburbs—all with a young child in tow.
         So Valentina suffered every day in her T-shirts, unable to stop the sweat from pouring down her body. She often found it so stiflingly hot that she could not concentrate on anything—not her teachers, not her classwork, not her exams—nothing but her sticky skin and wet armpits. But despite her humbling attire, the boys never stopped staring, never stopped catcalling, and never stopped grabbing her ass.

***

Tommy Jones hated the way the other boys stared, catcalled, and grabbed Valentina’s ass. And rightfully so. The two of them had been best friends since birth—eh, well, maybe not since birth, since she had moved to the neighborhood in the third grade. And maybe they couldn’t be considered best friends, since they didn’t really hang out outside of school. But they were friends, and Tommy was always watching out for her. He always kept an eye out to make sure no guy ever got too vulgar, too handsy. He had never had to act—not yet, at least—but he swore he would punish whoever was responsible if something were to happen to her. She was his to protect. And he knew she appreciated him for it.
         He had never told Valentina he was in love with her. Sure, he had wanted to. Plenty of times. But he always found a way to talk himself out of it. It wasn’t stupid kid love, either. This was Romeo and Juliet love. Yeah, the kind Shakespeare would write a novel about or something. He thought about her all the time. In bed. In the shower. In the living room when his parents weren’t home. Tommy wanted—no, needed her to be his. He’d never seen a more beautiful girl in his life. But he would never touch her. No. Never ever. He wasn’t like those guys. Tommy was a nice guy. Valentina deserved a nice guy. She deserved him. He needed her to realize that. He hated that she let those other scumbags grope her. Hated that she never said no. Didn’t she know she was better than that? Maybe he would just have to show her.
         Tommy knew there was little hope Valentina would agree to go with him to Spring Formal. He was sure about a thousand other guys had already asked, probably all of them better looking than him. He was a pretty average guy. He knew that. Everything about him was average. Average height. Average brown hair. Average brown eyes. Average pimples. Average patch of hair on his upper lip that he hoped would one day grow into a mustache. God, what was he thinking? A girl like her going to the dance with a guy like him? Oh, God, why had he done this? What an idiot, what a stupid, dumb . . .
         Yes. In her sweet little angelic voice she had said yes! Finally! Finally they would be together. Finally she was his.

***

Valentina was nothing less than surprised when Tommy Jones asked her to the Spring Formal. She had practically forgotten he existed. How long had it been since they last spoke—three, four months? But she liked Tommy; he was a sweet kid. He had always been nice to her, ever since she first moved to the neighborhood. Tommy wasn’t like the other boys. He had never touched her even once or spent too long staring at her cleavage. Her feelings toward him were completely platonic, and truthfully he didn’t really seem to have much of an interest in her, either. But she said yes anyway. She said yes because none of the other boys had asked, because she wanted to go to the dance, because Tommy was a nice guy, and because she would not have known how to say no otherwise.
         On the night of the dance, Valentina arrived in a curve-hugging white dress that was so tight she could barely breathe. Her mother had allowed her to wear it and had even done her makeup for her because this was a special occasion, and special occasions were the only times these types of things were acceptable. Along with the restrictive dress, Valentina wore five-inch heels that barely allowed her to walk, let alone dance. Nonetheless, she and Tommy managed to get in a few good minutes of awkward shuffling on the dance floor before one of the other boys pinched her ass and his date, seeing this, called her a disgusting little slut, prompting Valentina to leave the gymnasium in tears. And like the nice guy he was, Tommy followed her into the empty classroom she fled to and shut the door behind them, probably so that nobody would see her in her current state.

***

“Why do you let them touch you like that?” Tommy snapped, his voice saturated with contempt. “I would never do that to you! You know you deserve better than that!”
         Tommy was pissed. How dare that dickweed put his hands on his date. How dare Valentina let him. This was supposed to be their night. Now it was ruined. Ruined because she had worn that slutty dress. Ruined because she was so tempting to touch. Ruined because she couldn’t tell that guy to screw off. Enough was enough. He had to set her straight.

***

Tommy’s outburst had come out of nowhere, and it surprised the living crap out of Valentina. Why was he angry with her? What had she done wrong? He glowered at her, his glare demanding an answer. All she could do was shrug as she tried to stifle her sobs. She didn’t know why she let boys put their hands on her. She was just used to it.
         “I hate that you don’t defend yourself, Valentina. It’s like you don’t even know how!” He was growing angrier every second, angrier with her, and she could not comprehend why. “I guess I just have to teach you.”
         All of a sudden he was upon her, forcing his hands up her thighs. She nearly screamed, but in her shock her voice failed. She pushed him and beat her fists against him, but he was much stronger than her. It was no use. Even if she did get free, how could she escape him in these godforsaken heels?
         “Just say ‘no!’ ” he demanded. “That’s all you have to do and I’ll stop!”
         She wanted nothing more than for him to remove his hands from beneath her dress, but she could not move, could not speak. She was just a girl, just a powerless, defenseless girl. She did not know how to tell him to stop.
         So he didn’t.

***

Valentina arrived at school the following Monday dressed in a loose black turtleneck and baggy sweatpants. She did not care about the heat; it was her punishment. She deserved to suffer. She had not wanted the Terrible Thing to happen, but she had not prevented it. In fact, she had asked for it.
         As she walked down the hallway to class, clad in enough fabric to hide her shameful body, a few boys stared, one whistled, and another slapped her ass.