The Toy Thief
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You’re probably wondering what it was like being a girl named Jack. Both my parents named me, but not in the usual way. Dad told me, years after the fact, that Mom wanted to call me Jacqueline. A sweet name. A girl’s name. He agreed, but I always got the sense that my name was something of a loss for him, like his team got kicked out of the NCAA tournament in the first round. It didn’t really matter in the long term. He ended up getting his way when I ripped my way out of her. Babies do that sometimes. You don’t know me very well, but believe me when I say I didn’t kill her on purpose. I was just a… difficult pregnancy, which naturally led to a difficult adolescence and difficult adulthood.
Jack.
Difficult.
Was it the name or the lack of a mom that made me who I am? That’s the question of course, the big one, the one I’ve been trying to answer ever since I was old enough to ask the question. It was just before summer, the long summer with me and Andy, when all that awful shit went down in that dark hole in the ground. Everything changed that summer, and once the dust finally settled, I think that was when the question actually occurred to me.