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Dad’s working in his shop; he got a forge when we moved to Bethington, and he’s been making Mom twisted metal hooks and Christmas ornaments that you can slice your finger open on ever since. The garage gets hot as hell when he’s working, and the forge idling sounds like a plane getting ready for takeoff, so his speaker is typically blasting. When I walk into the garage, his back is to me, his favorite podcast blaring.

“Dad!” I yell, but he doesn’t hear me.

“So, who’s arguably the best woman of all time?” the host asks. “And don’t say Elizabeth Cady Stanton or Florence Nightingale. You know what I’m asking.”

“Pamela Anderson,” one of the guests says. “I’m a nineties boy.”

“Before she deflated her tits, though, right?” the host asks.

“Duh,” is the answer.

“Like all millennial men, I’m going with Britney Spears,” another guest says.

“Wasn’t she only like sixteen when she hit it big?” the host asks.

“My hand still thinks she is.”

I cringe, the feeling of calm slipping away from me, a different one rising in its place.

“What about you, man?” the host asks the third guest. “Best woman of all time?”

“Ms. Pac-Man.”

“ ’Kay,” the host says. “Gonna ask you to explain that one.”

“Best woman of all time,” he repeats. “Give her a quarter and she’ll swallow till she dies.” They all erupt into laughter—including my dad.

“DAD!” I scream, and he snaps off the speaker, turns around, looking caught.

“Oh, hey,” he says. “I was just going to—”

“Be amused at the idea of a woman swallowing sperm until it kills her?”

“Ava . . . I didn’t know you—” He’s going red, blood creeping into his face.

“Were standing behind you when you laughed at the idea of jacking off to a minor?” I ask, stepping further into the garage.

“Listen—” He puts his hands up in surrender.

“Or was it the concept of a woman trying to be seen as a whole human instead of just a pair of tits that really got you going?” I ask.

“Ava, they’re just jokes,” he says, shaking his head, hands still in the air.

“ARE THEY?!” I erupt, moving toward him. “Shit for men to laugh at and boys to see them doing it, so they get the message to respect women most of the time, but it’s okay not to if there’s a punch line? And double down on the laughs if it’s about tits or pussy?”

“What’s going on?” Mom’s voice comes from behind me, in the doorway.

“Dad’s a fucking piece of shit, that’s what,” I say.

“Ava!” Mom says.

“Jesus Christ, Ava, can’t you just give it a rest?” Dad yells.

“GIVE IT A REST?” I scream, tasting blood in the back of my throat. “I see a billboard for a strip club every day driving to school. My own dad’s got a goddamn calendar in the garage with girls’ tits falling out of their bikinis that my mom has to walk past every day when she gets home from work, and I’m the one that needs to GIVE IT A REST? Fuck you, Dad! I get this shit thrown in my face every fucking day, and if you don’t think that shit, and those fucking jokes, and every other goddamn thing like it contributes to a world where Becca gets raped, and I get . . . I get . . .”

I run out of steam, feel angry tears slipping down my face. My dad still has his hands in the air, his eyes on Mom, who comes up behind me, puts a hand on my shoulder.

“I need to leave,” I say, my chest heaving, gulping air. “I need to get out of here.”