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The first birthday that Aveton Malindra Gifford remembered was when she was six.  She remembered it vividly because she hated it.  Some children’s first memories are of happiness and families.  Her memory was of family.  Her memory was of despair and a lack of understanding.

 

The worst present ever.

 

The worst present for Aveton Gifford.

 

Dungarees.

 

There were balloons, decorations everywhere and the most fabulous of cakes.  She was surrounded by school friends – everyone had wanted to come to her party.  Aveton was like a candle, she drew others into her light.  Today they did not want to do so.  No-one wanted to see her cry.  She was a little girl who was loved and she knew that.  She knew she was loved but she hated the present and little girls cannot hide their feelings.  She could not hide her feelings.  Even at six she knew she was wrong, knew she should appreciate the effort, the gifts – it was all for her.  But it was not what she wanted, they were not her.

 

They weren’t even pink.

 

And so, the tears came.  Aveton knew that her being upset would upset others, she was not an insensitive girl.  A six-year-old girl cannot hold back tears, she wished she could but they fell and she saw the look of despair in her Mother’s eyes.  Children cannot conceal disappointment.

 

“I am not a boy” was all she managed to sob.

 

Aveton was indeed a girl, a girly-girl.  At six she was a girly-girl and she would be all of her life, she would not change.  Never a tom-boy, always herself, always Aveton.

 

 

Her Mother never made the same mistake again.

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The teenage years are the years of feeling self-conscious; self-conscious about growing and self-conscious about not growing.  The first girl in the class to wear a bra was teased mercilessly.  She was a slut, the boys looked at her.  It was envy, it was confusion.  Dressing room stares were dreaded.

 

Aveton had always been self-possessed.  She knew who she was.

 

For her fourteenth birthday she was bought make-up.  No-one else in her class was allowed to wear make-up.  Aveton was discreet, a touch of mascara, just enough to get herself noticed by her peers, but not enough to get noticed by the teachers.  Make-up was banned.

 

For her fourteenth birthday she was bought make-up and she was bought a bra.

 

A support mechanism.

 

She didn’t need it.

 

Aveton thought she was now a woman.

 

She was not.

 

She thought she was the envy of all her friends.

 

She was.

 

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He had bought her a locket, a locket with his picture inside.  It was an assumption but she didn’t mind.  Photographs can be replaced and he could be replaced.

 

Aveton wanted flattery and that was what she received for her sixteenth birthday.  Sweet sixteen.  She was not sweet, she was not cruel, she was ordinary.  It was just that no-one could see it.

 

An heirloom, her grandmother’s engagement ring.  Aveton was too young to appreciate this and people around her could not appreciate her age.  She was young, but she was young and pretty, a girly-girl.  Aveton thought the ring gaudy and large, not right for her delicate fingers.  It went in a drawer.  She wanted something new, something shiny, something new.

 

So, her parents bought her the bling she wanted.  She got everything she wanted.  Her friends envied the shine, the glamour, she was already the glamourous lady, if a young lady.  The ring stayed in the drawer, she would not wear it for years.

 

 

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It was the start of independence.  Wheels of fortune.  All the girls admired the older boys who could drive.  She was determined.  At seventeen her birthday present was driving lessons.  A key turning.  A key to her future.

 

Aveton did not take to driving naturally but, for her, it was a means to an end.  She would find someone to drive her in the future but for now it could be an escape.  Escaping from a prison that had no bars, her life was no cell.  But she was seventeen and she thought she ruled the world.  She did rule her own world.

 

Aveton wanted driving lessons and that was what she got.

 

She always got what she wanted.

 

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It took Aveton three times to pass her driving test but she was a determined sort.  She knew what it could mean.  Days away.  A powerful lady, higher that her friends could aspire to.

 

On her first driving test her examiner asked whether she had been forced to take the test.  She laughed.  Aveton was already knowing how to flirt and when flirting would not succeed, but she enjoyed it.  They laughed together, the Examiner and her.  Shared joke.  It didn’t make any difference to the outcome but it was the first time that Aveton realised her power, the power of being a lady.  Something to store up for the future, like the ring in her bedside cabinet.  It would come in handy one day but, at the moment, she was not sure how to use this power.  It was just ideas forming.

 

She failed.

 

Aveton’s second driving test was even worse.  The Examiner was a woman.  There was no flirting, there was no fun.  She was just a bad driver.

 

She failed.

 

The third time was on her eighteenth birthday.  She made a point of mentioning this.  The examiner was charmed.  He told her she had big gaps in her driving knowledge but she had tried and knew the right answers, even if she could not execute her actions as she wanted.

 

He was charmed.

 

She passed.

 

Aveton didn’t need the key to the door.  Aveton had the keys in her hand.

 

Her parents bought her a car, a small car, but a car.  Not one of her friends had a car.  This meant independence, this meant her freedom.  She could go wherever she wanted.  Her parents didn’t see her for dust.  This was not what they wanted.  Her Mother had the same look of despair in her eyes. 

 

It was as if she was six again.

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For Aveton’s nineteenth birthday her parents funded her abortion.

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They never bought her another birthday present again.