Chelsea Handler: My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands

"But you weren't, were you?" she said. "Luckily you were able to outrun him!"

My mother is European and expresses her love through food and cuddling. She wasn't the type of mother who would make it to school plays or soccer games, but if you wanted to stay home sick, she was your girl. Whenever you'd go up to her room to cuddle with her, she'd pull out a KitKat or Snickers bar from her night table and look at you with dancing eyes. She is a very sweet woman but had zero tolerance for all the Jewish mothers in our town and wanted to avoid them at all costs. If there was a parents' night or a teacher conference, it was understood early on that our mother would rather set herself on fire; we were lucky if she showed up at our bat mitzvah. Unfortunately, my father loved any sort of school event and would usually show up hooting and hollering in the front row, wearing snow boots and a sweater covered in dog hair.

Normally, I would have expected my mother to knock on the basement door and explain to us how to avoid getting smacked, but who knew what kind of high she was on after her nude pep rally upstairs.

"I heard that men fall asleep after they have sex," Sloane offered.

"Dad didn't look tired when he was chasing me with his belt," I told her.

"I don't know if I can wait for Mom to come for us. I'm really hungry."

I climbed up on the dryer and took a seat. "Mom was wearing a nurse's hat."

"What?" She seemed concerned.

"When I walked in on them, she was naked and Dad was chasing her on the bed. I saw his penis."

"Ew…"

"Ew? Ew? You're the pervert who made me do it!"

"I didn't think you'd really do it," she said.

"You knew I would!"

This was so typical of Sloane. She always backed out of a situation once controversy found its way into it. My brothers and sisters knew they could get me to do anything, mostly because I wanted them to like me, but Sloane was a different story. I wasn't sure I liked her.

"You are so double-faced," I told her. "I hate you."

"It's two-faced, dummy, and I am not!" she said.

"Oh, really, what about the time with the Feinstein sisters," I reminded her.

A year earlier when I was in kindergarten and she was in the fifth grade, we would walk to school together in the morning. One day, two other sisters were on their way to school with their five-foot-tall Irish wolfhound following closely behind. They were telling their dog to go back home but the dog wouldn't listen. Sloane was scared because the dog was so big and kept growling at us. The girls were laughing at my sister for being scared of their dog, but in reality, this dog was scary. He was huge and mean and looked like he belonged in a wild animal park. He had a large open wound on his hind leg and looked as if he was slowly decomposing.

"Stop laughing at my sister, you dumb girls," I yelled. "Your dog is ugly and belongs in a shelter."

"Shut up," Sloane said through her teeth. "Shut up."

"Oh, look, Sloane needs her six-year-old sister to defend her," one of the girls sneered.

"No, she doesn't," I yelled, then turned to Sloane for some backup-only to see her running furiously in the direction of the school.

Years later I learned the word "turncoat" in history class. Had I had this kind of ammunition against her earlier, things might have ended up differently.

"I dropped the camera in Mom's room," I told her.

"Oh, that's just great." She stood up with her hands on her hips. "I have pictures on there of Marsha's sleepover party. We all took our pajamas off and took pictures while playing Truth or Dare."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because. We felt like it."

"I'm telling," I told her.

"Who cares?" she said. "It was only girls."

"Lesbian!" I yelled.

I knew what a lesbian was because my father's best friend from high school's wife left him for another woman and my father referred to her only as "the lesbian."

"I am not a lesbian. Shut up!"

"Yes you are. I knew it."

"If anyone's a lesbian, it's you," she said. That shut me up.

"It's better for us just to go upstairs and get it over with," she said. "At least then we can eat something. I want a sandwich."

"How can you think about food at a time like this?" I asked her. "Do you think people at the Battle of Gettysburg had time for peanut butter and jelly?"

Switching tactics, she reminded me that it was a Thursday night and we would be missing The Cosby Show if we stayed in the basement. That would have been enough to drive any level-headed seven-year-old insane.

Even so, I was ready to stay in the basement as long as it took for my dad to forget about what had happened. I had seen his penis and did not think I would be able to look him in the eye anytime soon.

I thought about escaping through our one basement window, but then I would only be outside and it was cold. Winter was not a good time to run away from home, especially without an overnight bag.

I wondered if my mother was actually mad at me too. I told my sister I would need more than the five dollars we had originally agreed on.

"No way! You got caught. That was not part of the deal! I'm not even sure I'm going to give you the five dollars!"

I smacked her on the back of the head. She tried to hit me, but I ducked. Then she ran toward the stairs.

"No! Don't go!!!" I yelled, but she was already up the stairs and out the door when I ran up after her to try and pull her back down.

I locked the door just as I heard her get another smack, but this one sounded like it was on her face. I listened as she started wailing. This upset me deeply. I wanted her to be a strong gladiator type, the kind of girl I envisioned myself at thirteen. A weight lifter with a steadfast disposition and a designer wardrobe. But she was a sissy, and I could not follow suit.

It was becoming clear to me that the only way out of this was to turn the tables on my father. Instead of running, I would never leave the basement. Not even if he begged me. I would tell him how sickened I was by what I saw and that I now had reservations about going out into the real world without a psychiatrist by my side. I would insist on therapy two to three times a week and also insist that it take place during school hours. I would demand an entirely new wardrobe and that they allow me to move into the master bedroom, while my parents took my room. I would make them beg for my forgiveness while threatening them with lawsuits: unfit parenting, involving a minor in sexual activities, pornographic exposure to a minor, the list would go on and on. I saw Irreconcilable Differences. I was no dummy.

My father knocked on the door for the last time that night. "Are you ready to come out and get your smack?"

"I want Mom," I said. There was no response from the other side of the door. I wondered how Sloane's sandwich tasted with her bloody lip. I wondered if the Huxtable children had ever walked in on their parents having sex. It was important to occupy my mind with other thoughts, so I decided to do some laundry. Maybe when my mother came and saw that all the laundry had been done she would tell my father, who would come to the conclusion that I wasn't such a bad kid after all. I took one look at the laundry machine with all its buttons and dials and decided sleep was more appealing.

I woke up sometime in the middle of the night after feeling something crawl over my foot. I jumped up and ran to the top of the stairs. Slowly, I opened the door. All the lights were out. No one was in sight. I went straight to bed and fell asleep.

My father came in my room at seven A.M. to wake me up. "It's time to get up, love." Then he walked downstairs.

I was ecstatic. Sloane should have listened to me the whole time! I got dressed for school, had a bowl of Lucky Charms in celebration of my personal victory, and brushed my teeth.