I am eight years old. My third grade teacher tells me that when a boy is mean to me, it means he likes me. If it is supposed to make me feel better about the boys tugging on my pigtails on the playground, it doesn’t.

I am 10 years old. A few boys in my fifth grade gym class are caught looking through a tiny crack into the girls’ locker room. They receive a “stern talking to” and the crack is promptly and silently fixed.

I am 13 years old. I am told by a hall monitor in the eighth grade wing that my skirt is too short. She gives me a once over and says, “I would never let my daughter go out like that.” My friends and I complain about the dress code. Our teacher tells us there is a good reason for it: We are distracting to our male classmates. A boy should be focused on his schoolwork, not a pair of legs. Apparently that is all we are: a distraction.

I am 15 years old. I finally take my hairdresser’s advice and cut my hair short. The same day I am told that boys do not like girls with short hair. The fact that this sentence came out of my own father’s mouth stung more than I thought possible.

I am 16 years old. A boy in my geometry class tells me that there is just something about me that looks “really mean.” My sister unapologetically informs me that that “something about me is called “resting b**** face” and that she has it, too. Our father tells us that we should soften up a bit so we don’t scare boys off. Boys, after all, don’t like mean girls. I thought about what my third grade teacher said it meant when a boy was mean to me.

I am 17 years old. I get my first job at a bookstore; I think it’s a perfect place for me. When I am cashing out a man purchasing the newest edition of “Playboy,” he tells me that I have the face to be on the cover of one of these, someday. It is supposed to be a compliment, but it does not feel like one. I thank him anyway, but follow up by telling him my age, hoping it will stop the conversation in its tracks. But he winks and tells me that that is the fun in turning 18: you can do all of the things you legally couldn’t before. And as I drop the change into his hand, I notice he is wearing a wedding band. Somehow I feel even more sick.

I am 17 years old. And I now know that when a boy is mean to you, it should never be mistaken for a term of endearment.

I am 17 years old. And I now know that Peeping Toms deserve more than just a “stern talking to.”

I am 17 years old. And I now know that I am more than a distraction, more than a pair of legs.

I am 17 years old. And I now know that my hairdresser was right: short hair does compliment my face.

I am 17 years old. And I now know that a boy is still going to call you a b****, whether or not you smile.

I am 17 years old. And I now know that a girl’s young age is often not seen as a deterrent, but an enticement.

I am only 17 years old.