"Here." My voice is just a whisper the first time.
"Here." I repeat it just loud enough for the teacher to hear me from the back corner of the room.
I prefer to go unnoticed, but when school starts, I got to be noticed six times a day for a week until the bone head teachers start to figure out that all they got to do is look at that tidy little seatin' chart to know who's missing. I don't know why they worry any way if they aint gonna use it.
"Pssst. Dunham. done. ham. pssstt." Bobbie Pittman. Class ass. I ignore him like I have every year. Eight years in school together and it's become a game between us. He thinks he wins. I let him think he wins. I win.
Well, thanks to Bobbie, I know this ain't going to be a good year 'cause he and the other turds in my class are already snickering about my name, like it's my fault I got it in the first place. I guess they all wouldn't be snickering if I announced how their church goin' daddies got the clap, which they in turn gave to their church lovin', homemakin' junior auxilliary mamas. They daddies done my mama. Yeah. I win.
Done Ham. Dunham. My mama's name. I hate it because it's hers. She got it from her mama and her preacher daddy, then she gave it to me, 'cause she didn't know if it was the quarterback, the tight end, or the defensive line what knocked her up. My name's more like herpes than the clap. Flare up after flare up after flare up.
Mama got lots of attention in her day, with her small town pretty looks-big boobs, big hair, long legs and a tight ass. She loved the boys' attention, and early on, in between church services, she got a taste of the liquor and started to love it, too. The combo of the two, liquor and love for male company, gave her what I've heard some of the older ladies call 'spirited.' Drunk and easy, and the boys loved her extra special, kinda like hard shell chocolate on soft serve ice cream.