I remember sitting at that low wooden desk with my book, I think it was Henry and Mudge, waiting for my turn to read aloud. I was wearing long sleeves. I think they were light pink. He was pulling at the sleeves, trying to get his hand in them. I was confused, I thought we were going to read. I didn’t think that that was going to happen every time we sat here. I wanted to learn. He kept trying but could get his hand in the sleeve, the wrist was too tight. I could see him getting mad. I remember trying to spread the sleeve out with the fingers of my right hand while still holding my book flat with my left arm. I was worried that we would get caught, worried that I would get called on and not know where we were, worried that I would get in trouble. He could only get his arm part way up my sleeve. He was getting mad. I was scared and confused–I couldn’t understand why we weren’t just reading. I remember thinking that since he couldn’t get his arm up my sleeve he would just let it go, but he didn’t. I don’t know if he went under my shirt or down my pants, but I do remember thinking that instead of getting a break, it was way worse. After that, I stopped wearing long sleeves. At least that way I got to choose how he abused me.