Paris: A Memoir for Young Women in the Age of Influencers

by Paris Hilton

Mr. Abercrombie made me believe that I was rare and precious, and you know what? I was. Every eighth-grade girl is rare and precious. Every eighth-grade girl is a treasure, like a priceless work of art, so you’d like to think that every eighth-grade teacher will be like a security guard in an art gallery. He’s not there to enjoy the beauty; he’s there to protect it. He’s there to enforce the rules, and Rule Number One is: DO. NOT. TOUCH. Keep your fingers, lips, and man bits off the masterpieces. It should be obvious that the Girl with a Pearl Earring deserves a chance to smile her wistful smile without some creepy guy feeling her up. Because damage to that precious work of art can be hidden, but it can never be undone. My teacher asked me almost every night, “Are your parents home?” One night when they were out, I said, “No, it’s just the nanny.” “Come outside,” he said. “I’m waiting for you.” I threw on sneakers, climbed out my bedroom window, and slid down the drainpipe. Night air filled my lungs, along with the smell of mown grass and gardenias. I saw a late-model SUV idling at the top of the driveway. I climbed into the passenger seat. Teacher pulled me into his arms and kissed me. The intensity of it stunned and delighted me. My brain lit up, flush with adrenaline, curiosity, and a host of feelings I couldn’t even name. This terrifying blissful kissing went on for what seemed like a long time and seemed to be evolving into something more. I don’t know where he would ...