My father was a teacher, but he didn’t teach me, he only corrected. Uncapped his red felt-tip pen and scored me up until there was no clean skin left, and I was a throbbing red thing, hardly human. I wore long sleeves and long pants so no one would know how bad it was, how flawed I was, how much correction I required. Growing made my body stretch out, so my previous flaws became less noticeable and new flaws emerged. Red vines climbed my legs, my hips and my breasts before settling in as shiny white reminders that I was no longer a child. I could get pregnant. Not that anyone would want that, want me. I became horrified by the attention from boys I received. Didn’t they know? Couldn’t they see the marks? Caveat emptor, we learned in Latin class. Buyer beware. But that wasn’t right. I wasn’t trying to trick anyone. It made me sick to think that someone might finally see me, see the marks and then claim I’d lied about my quality. I knew I barely passed the test, any test. At dinner my mother asked me why I always kept my blinds closed. I told her I didn’t want anyone to see me. “You think anyone’s looking at you?” my father asked and guffawed at the idea that someone might find me attractive. I meant I didn’t want anyone to be accidentally scarred by seeing me through a window. I was sure that a peak of me unfiltered would destroy the viewer like I was some millennial Medusa. I couldn’t be responsible for that. Misunderstanding my blushing, my father unsheathed his magic marker and applied a fresh coat until I was as red and squat as a fire hydrant.