Lights blare; music pulses. Screaming echoes from all corners of the gymnasium, decked out with streamers. This is my first high school dance.

After a bit, the music changes, getting softer and calmer. Kids break out of their groups and form couples, swaying gently. So this is a slow dance.

A shadow comes up behind me. “Would you like to dance with me?” He asks, shyly.

I don’t. want to do it. But my friends are pushing me towards him, so I really have no choice. He puts his arms around my waist, after positioning mine. “It’s okay,” he tells me. “I’m kinda nervous too.”

But I’m not nervous. Nothing, really. Until afterwards. That’s when I go to the bathroom and throw up, throw up until I feel completely empty. Why do I always get sick when boys touch me? I feel so awful; inside and out.

I’m in the bathroom of my elementary school. That’s where it happened. That’s where he hurt me. That’s where I lost…what I didn’t even know was mine to give, at age seven.

So that’s why. But I don’t know that.