Fifth grade, summer of the green one-piece. I was waiting out in front of the YMCA, downtown Orlando, and there was a man on a motorcycle under the portico where Mom picked me up. I was in the green suit like skin, barefoot on the hot concrete. Dancing. For the first time I could see how a man could have been a possible boy. That was the day I didn’t step away, go back inside. He had water-blue eyes, a long beard, no shirt, and jeans I knew to be “bell-bottoms,” but they had no bells. His body was muscle smooth, like a horse. Those pants had seams running down the center of the legs. Useless seams. I could feel my finger wanting to . . . Finger! I put it in my mouth. I put a second finger in, like a baby. He held his helmet in his arm, like a football. “Hi,” I said. But I meant Can I ride? I meant around the parking lot. I meant sit on the bike for one minute. I meant I don’t have a real mother. (Where was my mother?) I felt wings grow out of my back from the straps of the green suit. I stepped toward his motorcycle, stepped out of my story. I only wanted to prove that I wasn’t afraid, wasn’t like her. He said, “No, it’s hot!” Too late. I’d already pressed my knee against the silver pipe. I heard the fizzle, the spit, felt the bright pain and the shame. On my kneecap that afternoon remains: Black heart of scar. The beginning of the girl in two pieces.