I'm reading Tiger Tiger now and it's quite addictive.

(From the book)

>Often, I’d sit on the plastic-covered couch, dressed only in an undershirt and panties, looking at the houses across the street.
>One day, I noticed a man on the front porch of one of those houses, staring at me. So I started to do things I thought would entertain him. I’d stretch one leg high in the air or toss my short brown hair (now grown into a chin-length bob). >Or I’d pull up my shirt a little and gaze at my belly button.
>I did this every time I saw the man watching. Mommy was always upstairs, calling friends or 1-800 hotlines.
>I felt like the nude woman in Poppa’s painting: beautiful, so dark-eyed and haunting. I no longer felt ashamed. My too skinny body felt like a runway model’s supple form. It was the only time I felt like I was worth anything, like someone could see me as something other than a freak.
>One day, I waved to him. He waved back, and I didn’t know why, but
his boldness made me furious. I hadn’t wanted him to wave back or react in
any way.
>I ran upstairs and barged into the bedroom Mommy and I shared. She
was on the phone. I heard my name and figured she was again trying to get
advice concerning me.
>“Mommy, there’s a man across the street; he’s looking at me in my
panties!”

What a bitch.