Her mother told her once: "Don't be no whore, Fe-fe."

Felicia thought about this often. She could almost see her mother now, arm hanging drunkenly over bathtub edge, cigarette—stuck to her bottom lip—moving antennae-like and her mascara-streaked, lipstick-smeared face.

Felicia knew even then, at eight years old, to listen; mothers know these things.

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