Every summer during her childhood, Jamie's father makes a large donation to the local community center. These donations go toward an indoor pool, new sports equipment, even a few desktop computers. Jamie remembers one summer when she and her brother, Adrian, took an art class with their mother at the center. She was seven. Old enough to color inside the lines, too young to understand that sometimes you don't have to.

In the middle of their assigned table is a large book that talks about colors; which ones compliment each other, how you can use them to express certain emotions, all the different shades you could make with them. Underneath that book is a long list of colors – numbered, alphabetized, and laminated. They have strange names that she memorizes. When August rolls around, she can list them all in order. It's a useless skill she keeps tucked in her back pocket. Half a dozen shots of Cuervo only let her remember the ones that start with the letter “C”. Sometimes she does it in her head without realizing it. Her eyes glaze over and she starts to mouth the words silently. God, her father hated when she did it in the middle of one of his long lectures. It's like clicking a pen or tapping your foot, a habit you didn't know you'd formed.

Absolute zero.

Acid green.

Aero blue.

When her cousin's friend holds her down and forces himself inside her, a violent thrust between her struggling thighs, she recites them to herself.

Afrian violet.

Air superiority blue.

Alabaster.

They're in his house, on his floor, beside his couch. His ceiling has that weird popcorn texture pressed onto it, stark white paint flaking off in random spots. He says her name, curses in front of it. Blood is in her mouth. Did she bite her lip? Had he? His hand covers her mouth when she gasps. Stop, please. It doesn't come out that way. Someone clasping a hand over your mouth makes you speak in vowels.

Alice blue.

Alloy orange.

Almond.

Nobody can know about this. It's happening to her and she doesn't even wanna know about it. He pulls his hand off her mouth, looks down at her with a sweaty look of determination. Does he think she's gonna cum? Does he think she wants this? There's a scratch on his neck, a button hanging loose on his shirt. She had fought him. Fought him while he yanked her inside his house, twisting and pulling herself away from him. He shoved her on the couch, his belt buckle jingles behind her. She doesn't remember how he gets her jeans off, can only think about how she'll have to drive home without underwear because he tore them. She wiggles and squirms and flails so much they both fall from the couch and onto the floor.

Brandy.

Brick red.

Bright green.

Bright lilac.

Bright lilac.

Bright lilac.

Bright lilac.

Bright lilac.

Her eyes are closed when he finishes, a sweaty hand in her hair and his mouth on her shoulder. Outside the sun is setting, peachy white beams of light stream through his blinds.