The thrift store

My hands visibly shook as father pulled into the parking lot. I didn't know how badly he was planning to humiliate me here, but I hoped the anxiety would be the worst part. I had nothing to do but focus on how my breasts jiggled on every bump, and the feel of the air conditioner on my bare skin. Dad but the SUV into park and said, "take the box and your bag in, and donate them." I looked at him incredulously. Hes seriously expecting me to walk into this store naked, and give away my clothes. Part of me held onto the hope that this is all a bluff and he'll stop me when I get out of the truck. This is the only part of me that was able to move. Fuck it. If you want the world to see your daughters tits to make a point and scare me, then so be it. I didn't look that sad sack of shit in the eye, I opened the door swung my legs out, and once again let the fresh air and wondering eyes of a half dozen strangers wonder all over what used to be my privates. I didn't make eye contact with the middle aged woman and her daughter who stood with shocked gaping maws, or the fat old guy with the expression of a predator, or the teenagers eyeing me like a fallen angel. I just walked to the back (swiftly since I was barefoot on asphalt), opened the hatch, threw the bag into the box, and carried all of the items I should be using to cover my body towards the entrance. "Please stop me daddy," I prayed as I approached the automatic doors. My hopes dwindled as the doors opened and I inserted my body into the cool air and fluorescent glow of the shop.

A dozen sets of eyes shot in my direction when a young girl shouted, "It's a naked lady mommy!" Thanks kid. My anger and frustration didn't overcome the intense blush I felt baring my body to a dozen new strangers. At least I hoped they were strangers until I heard, "Tammy, are you ok?" I stuttered and couldn't breath. I looked up at a young African-American man. His name was Jason. We had gone to high school together and shared some social circles. A dolly zoom would have captured my shock in that moment. "I....I..," I stuttered. To his credit, when I finally brought myself to look the man in the eye, he was making eye contact, and that's the only thing that brought me out of my stutter. "I'd like to donate some clothes;" I cobbled out the words. His eyes never broke with mine, but his look of uncertainty definitely caricatured how I felt inside. He hesitated with a concerning look before politely asking, "do you need a tax receipt?" I stammered a quick, "No" and another young man quickly relieved me of my packaged wardrobe. I stood there, exposed, no longer a box on my front, fists clenched at my side. "Thank you," I managed before twirling on my heels and exiting the building. By now phones were ever presently documenting my humiliation. I briskly returned to my fathers truck, and entered the vehicle without making eye contact with him. I felt too hollow to cry. "Are you ok?" my father asked. "Just fucking drive," is all I could manage in response.