★
(an old solo, but still canon here)
"-ica."
You'd been afraid, because this was a new place, and people kept warning you about what you shouldn't do, how careful you should be. Because you're a good girl but sometimes you get too excited. Sometimes you get too loud. But in a place like this, it should be okay, truly it should...
"America Theodorina Aldrina Georgia Jhones!"
Your head whips up in alarm, small hands clutching hard at the battered little Barbie suitcase you insisted on carrying yourself. Hardly anybody says all that name, and the woman looking down at you had a tone when she spoke it. Like it was some nasty business in her mouth. Something to spit out. You feel a little sick at it, because nobody's ever said your name like that and it hurts. It makes you feel small and unwanted.
You look away but strong, knobbly fingers grip your chin and wrench it up, "You look at me when I talk to you, and pay attention besides. It is unbecoming to daydream while someone is talking to you. Now stand up straight." The woman had a ramrod posture, firm and proud. It made her seem to tower over everything, even though she looked so tiny next to Uncle Frank when he'd dropped you off. The woman sniffed at the sight of you but didn't give any further commands other than a stern come along, girl.
You're led to a small room and it is tidy and nice. But most of the small rooms you have slept in were also tidy and nice. They weren't yours, not really. But they were nice. "You'll be staying here while you're with me. Has anybody explained your situation?" She didn't bother waiting for your answer, which is good because you don't understand the question. "You'll be staying here during your schooling, because the Lord knows the rest have let you run wild for too long."
She waits for your response this time, and finally you remember the advice you'd been given by your well-meaning uncle. Solemnly, you answer, "Yes, Aunt Prudence."
She makes a sound, and maybe it means good girl. Maybe it means she's not happy. Your hands worry along the handle of the suitcase. "You'll be sleeping here. You'll keep this room in the same condition as it is now. I'll let you settle in tonight, but tomorrow I'll be giving you a list of chores. You may as well be an orphan for all your father is about, but this isn't a charity. Do you understand me, America Jhones?"
"Yes, Aunt Prudence."
You are six and in seven more years she will be dead. For seven years you will fear her, and respect her, and you will hate her even as you seek her approval above all others. In seven years you will run truly wild to both flaunt the remnants of her authority over you and mourn the loss of the one fixed, reliable figure in your life.
