First, move out of New Jersey. It is the only state where it is illegal to pump your own gas. As such, it is diametrically opposed to the development of this valuable life skill. It would be wise to move somewhere relatively far from New Jersey—say, Minnesota—so that you are not tempted to go back.

I practice punching at the kitchen table. I practice on the couch. I practice in my sleep. I make a fist and see my life there. I make a fist and study the veins that press out against the skin of my forearms. Hating your hate of love, I practice punching at the kitchen table.

I have learned not to get burned.

The year that I turn sixteen, which is a very long year, I often work the opening shift at McDonald’s. Other than babysitting, this is my first job, and I take it quite seriously. Twenty hours a week; more in the summer. I have no license, so my mother drives me, both of us heavy with the want of sleep.

I couldn’t make myself heard for fifty years. Not even the boy could hear me, the boy I lived inside. My vocal anatomy worked fine—larynx, mouth, lungs beneath my breasts—I just didn’t have the words. Nobody did, not in the sixties. I had to resort to signals. Most of them he missed.