My story began like all stories do: a man met a woman and they became my parents.
My father was a hard case and my mother was an angel. They grew up on the outskirts of Philadelphia but the outskirts became the city.
When they met, my father was thirteen and my mother was ten, almost eleven, but she told him she was twelve. She had her hair in braids and she was hop scotching alone. Her older sister had left her to walk to the local diner with her friends and get milkshakes (code for waiting for boys). She didn’t mind, she was okay by herself. She hopped and hummed and didn’t notice my future father watching from the sidewalk.
He was only thirteen but he was smoking a cigarette as he leaned against my grandfather’s truck. He might not have said anything to her at all that day if not for what happened next. He could have been content just watching her silently, admiring her white skirt flying gracefully out from her body with each hop, but when she picked up the rock she cut her hand.
The rock fell to the ground as did her smile. Tears came to her eyes as the blood flooded from her torn flesh. The cut wasn’t deep but it was a particularly hot summer day, coupled with her active frolicking about the driveway and so the blood ran and the tears ran and my father ran.
“Do you need help?”
Taken back by the strange boy in her space, she bit her lip and didn’t say anything.
He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket.
“I get hurt a lot.” He moved to wrap the dirty piece of cloth around the palm of her hand but she pulled away.
“Sorry, I guess I should introduce myself first. My name’s Tommy.” He held out his hand but she didn’t shake it. She looked at him with apprehensive eyes.
“It’ll help if you wrap it up.”
She waited another little while before she offered her hand to the unkempt teenager who was just a little taller than her but seemed a lot older. She looked over his muddy clothes and wondered how long it had been since he had had a bath. She wanted to wipe away the smudge of soil on his face as he tied his handkerchief carefully around her fragile hand.
She devoted her attention to his surgical securing of the scrap of cloth around her hand. She noticed how dark his fingers were in contrast to her pale white skin. She couldn’t tell if he had a dark complexion or if his hands merely needed a thorough encounter with a bar of soap.
He smiled at her when he was done, amused by her serious stare.
“Do you have a name?”
She nodded with pursed lips.
“My name is Penny.”
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