In second grade a neighbor kid invited me over to show off how well she could play “Für Elise” on her shiny grand piano—she even had it memorized. It was a beautiful piano, three or four times the size of the tinny upright at my house, and rich sound flowed easily from it, filling the room. She touched all the right keys at all the right times but there was no feeling. Though I didn’t have the song memorized yet, I knew I played it better. I would have played all day long if I could have. 

But there were huge hands and sour breath and the low growl, “Keep playing or your mother will ask you why you stopped.” Why I stopped, if I could stop. If I could stop him. If I could stop him by stopping my fingers. If I could stop his hands by stopping mine I would have. Every cursed time. But I could not. I had to keep playing, though the music fled the moment I heard him step into the room.

I heard in my head what she’d say if I stopped. About not being as good as my older cousin, how I had to concentrate harder, that I’d never get good if I was lazy, daydreaming, making up my own songs instead of hammering away at the lessons. If I told her why, why I stopped—that I had to stop his hands—she would not have believed it. His hands were essential to her, terrorist to me. She would never believe if I told her; I had learned that well before he told me so. 

“Baby baby, stick your head in gravy! Wash it out with bubblegum and send it to the navy!” Grubby brats who could hardly even read yet in first grade, painstakingly sounding out even small words,  mispronouncing everything—the stupid kids. The ones with crew cuts, who fought each other and bragged about torturing insects, trying to be tough. That day it was my turn to be the bug.

“Hey, Jew! Your parents don’t believe in God! You’re gonna go to hell!”

“Hey, dictionary! Nobody wants to hear all those dumb big words!”

“Hey, teacher’s pet! You think you’re so smart? We’re gonna beat you up!! We’re gonna tell Mrs. Leone you hate her!!”

“Hey, tomboy! You’re not even a girl! No you’re not. Pull down your pants! Pull down your pants and prove it!  If you don’t, we’re gonna do it!” 

I tore out of the playground at top speed, shoes slap-slap-slapping tarmac up the dead-end hill, crunching brown leaves drowned out by the rush-rush-rush of blood in my ears. Slap-slap-slap up the front stairs, click of the latch, heavy door slamming closed after me, plant stand rattling on tile, click of the deadbolt in case they were close, knapsack’s dull thud as I shucked it onto the closet floor. “MOOOOO-OOOM!” ripping through my airway, then sobs. 

Quick clicking footsteps, then a sharp, “What?” 

Across the room, hands on hips, assessing. She didn’t come to me, didn’t pull me in. I didn’t go to her. 

I told her what they said, those boys. I told her I wasn’t ever going to school again. They were going to pull down my pants! I was going to go to hell! They were going to beat me up and tell my favorite teacher I hated her! 

“Of course you’re going to school. They won’t touch you. We don’t even believe in hell. What did you do to provoke them?” 

What? 

What … did I do? What did I do? 

“I didn’t do ANYthing,” I wailed. “I didn’t do ANYTHING!”

“Well, you must have done something. Don’t do it again. Of course you’re going to school. Remember, sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you.”

Stung, stunned, shut. What did I do? What did I do to make them hate me, ridicule me, hit me? 

What did I do to make her not hold me, not comfort me? What did I do to make her blame me? What did I do, what did I do?

What did I do to make my real mother give me away? What did I do to make my real mother give me away to her? What did I do, what did I do?

In case those boys were wrong and mom was wrong and there was a god, I begged that god to tell me what I’d done so I wouldn’t do it again. I was desperate to never do it again, but how could I help doing it if I didn’t know what it was?

How could I keep him away from me, away from my piano? What did I do to make him do that? I never wanted to do it again, whatever I did that made people hurt me. 

Why wouldn’t anybody tell me what I did?