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Authors: Ma-Ling Lee
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of me wishes I had stayed rather than gone back to Jackson, which is what I did. But the way I thought about things back then, being at that youth center was the worst thing that could have happened to me. I had lost my best friend, and Jackson was the only person who even cared that I existed. It was inevitable that I would escape as soon as I got the chance.
That was my last time at that or any youth center. I managed to keep a low enough profile until I turned eighteen that I was never sent back again. Actually, what happened was that I got better at lying, so when I did get picked up for something, usually for fighting or underage drinking or reckless driving or too many parking tickets, the cops couldn't connect me to that place in Maine because I wouldn't tell them my real name or where I came from. I have Julio to thank for helping me develop those skills. I was scared the first couple of times the cops picked me up, but pretty soon I realized how easy it was to deal with them. I even came up with my own Rolodex of fake names to make it more fun. I often called myself Angel, which I thought was funny because I knew I wasn't one, or Roxanne after the Police song. For my last name, I'd choose one of the few Korean words I still remembered. One of my favorites was Halmuni, which means "grandmother." Angel Grandmother. The cops could usually tell I was bullshitting them, but they didn't care. I was never picked up for anything big enough for them to give a shit. I'd always picture some Korean cop getting ahold of my arrest report and having a good laugh when he read it. That trick worked for me for years. It would probably still work except that now I actively try not to get arrested.
To make my own money while I was living with Jackson (because there was no way he was going to give me much to spend) I danced at strip clubs in and around Boston. At one of the nicer spots, I met Andre. He was so smooth, I couldn't help but notice him as soon as he walked in the place. He drove a white Cadillac and always wore nice clothes, mostly custom-made suits that hung just right off his six-foot-one frame, with matching gators in every color. He was always draped in huge, expensive diamonds and either a mink coat or a fox bomber jacket when it was cold. He was tall, dark, and handsome, with dark eyes, dark skin, and dark hair, which made him stand out among all the losers who frequented the place. But he also stood out because he seemed mature, like he had his shit together. He was in his early thirties, and he knew how to talk to women. Most of the guys who came into the club made me feel like I was working hard for my money. They were drunk, rude idiots, for the most part, but not Andre. When he came around, all the girls were happy to shower him with lots of attention.
One day I was dancing near where he was sitting when I overheard him pick up on one of my co-workers. My ears perked up when I heard him rattle off the digits of his phone number, and I repeated them over and over in my head until I could find a time to sneak off and write them down. I didn't really plan to call him, but I just knew that I wanted his number for some reason.
From then on, not only was Andre on my radar screen but I was on his. He came in often enough to notice that I regularly had black eyes and bruises. You can't hide much when you're stripping, but sometimes I'd keep my sunglasses on while I danced. I was hoping that the guys, if they thought about it at all, would assume that they were just a cool prop or that I had a hangover, but they were really a dead giveaway that I was hiding something. Andre always knew what was going on. He pulled me aside one day, looked through the lenses into my eyes, and said, "You don't need that." He didn't say what he was referring to, but I knew. Back then no one was telling me things like that.
Jackson was the kind of guy who was always mad at the world, and he liked to take it out on me. To be fair, he had
That was my last time at that or any youth center. I managed to keep a low enough profile until I turned eighteen that I was never sent back again. Actually, what happened was that I got better at lying, so when I did get picked up for something, usually for fighting or underage drinking or reckless driving or too many parking tickets, the cops couldn't connect me to that place in Maine because I wouldn't tell them my real name or where I came from. I have Julio to thank for helping me develop those skills. I was scared the first couple of times the cops picked me up, but pretty soon I realized how easy it was to deal with them. I even came up with my own Rolodex of fake names to make it more fun. I often called myself Angel, which I thought was funny because I knew I wasn't one, or Roxanne after the Police song. For my last name, I'd choose one of the few Korean words I still remembered. One of my favorites was Halmuni, which means "grandmother." Angel Grandmother. The cops could usually tell I was bullshitting them, but they didn't care. I was never picked up for anything big enough for them to give a shit. I'd always picture some Korean cop getting ahold of my arrest report and having a good laugh when he read it. That trick worked for me for years. It would probably still work except that now I actively try not to get arrested.
To make my own money while I was living with Jackson (because there was no way he was going to give me much to spend) I danced at strip clubs in and around Boston. At one of the nicer spots, I met Andre. He was so smooth, I couldn't help but notice him as soon as he walked in the place. He drove a white Cadillac and always wore nice clothes, mostly custom-made suits that hung just right off his six-foot-one frame, with matching gators in every color. He was always draped in huge, expensive diamonds and either a mink coat or a fox bomber jacket when it was cold. He was tall, dark, and handsome, with dark eyes, dark skin, and dark hair, which made him stand out among all the losers who frequented the place. But he also stood out because he seemed mature, like he had his shit together. He was in his early thirties, and he knew how to talk to women. Most of the guys who came into the club made me feel like I was working hard for my money. They were drunk, rude idiots, for the most part, but not Andre. When he came around, all the girls were happy to shower him with lots of attention.
One day I was dancing near where he was sitting when I overheard him pick up on one of my co-workers. My ears perked up when I heard him rattle off the digits of his phone number, and I repeated them over and over in my head until I could find a time to sneak off and write them down. I didn't really plan to call him, but I just knew that I wanted his number for some reason.
From then on, not only was Andre on my radar screen but I was on his. He came in often enough to notice that I regularly had black eyes and bruises. You can't hide much when you're stripping, but sometimes I'd keep my sunglasses on while I danced. I was hoping that the guys, if they thought about it at all, would assume that they were just a cool prop or that I had a hangover, but they were really a dead giveaway that I was hiding something. Andre always knew what was going on. He pulled me aside one day, looked through the lenses into my eyes, and said, "You don't need that." He didn't say what he was referring to, but I knew. Back then no one was telling me things like that.
Jackson was the kind of guy who was always mad at the world, and he liked to take it out on me. To be fair, he had
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