That meant a new home and a new school. It was a newness I relished, hoping I’d be able to leave behind old memories. When I was in Mrs. Roundtree’s second-grade class, we had a special speaker come in one day. She was the tallest woman I’d ever seen. Thick, greasy hair sat like worms on her shoulders, and she had a face the color of milk. I sat in the front row of class and listened as she showed us, on the silhouette of a body, our “no-no” zones. “No one should touch you here, here, or here,” she said as she slapped the ruler against the three red circles on the poster board. “If anyone does, you need to tell a grownup as soon as possible.” As she elaborated on how bad it was for someone to touch the red zones, I began to feel like the ceiling, the walls, and the floor were folding around me. All eyes seemed to be zeroing in on the back of my head, reading the words “I’m guilty too” flashing inside me. I tried not to look into her face as she explained we should not keep this secret and it was wrong.
