Exposure by alexmazzurco

EXPOSURE

Volume 1, Winter 2012

EXPOSURE Volume 1, Winter 2012

KLEPTO

THE DONOR

NINETEEN

ROLLBACK

EATING SOMEWHERE ELSE

UNTITLED

SIGNATURES

NOTHING BEYOND FREEDOM

SCABS

100

Amber Robinson Kate Brody

Kaylee Walsh Anna Jolly

Jacquelyn Stolos Alex Sanchez

Maciej Kietlinski

Chris Insana

Eric Johnson

Amber Robinson is from Saint Petersburg, Florida, and is a law student at Georgetown University Law Center. She earned her BA in Literature and Law and Justice from Eckerd College. This fall, she entered her final year of law school and enrolled in Advanced Fiction Writing to pick up where she left off in terms of her education in creative writing and literature, Her goal is to practice antitrust law while writing short stories and poems. She is excited about the challenges two such careers can present. Hopefully, Amber can give them both her energy and passion. She has published a short story, â&#x20AC;&#x153;In Death Do We Part,â&#x20AC;? and a few poems in a Saint Petersburg College Anthology. She was the editor of the Eckerd College Newspaper and St. Pete Collegiate Literary Magazine, Musai VI and also held the positions of University of Tampa Literary Magazine Fiction Section Editor and Editor of Eckerd College Literary Magazine, Triton.

KLEPTO

Sometimes I had 50 cents. Sometimes I didn’t. I’m thinking of that savory moment when I bit into still-warm cookie, sugary drops crumbling from my mouth, occasional bursts of chocolate flavor. It was so sweet, even if I didn’t have fifty cents. Maybe it was bigger and sweeter. This is what I think of when I sit quietly in the pew, my arm thrown casually over the back, watching him on the platform rest his fingers on the keys. It is so quiet, a few mumbled prayers. The air is very cold and dry, feathery on my stockinged calves. He looks up and I make out his eyes, piercing even in the soft glow of light. Our gazes lock. I cannot bring myself to look away or to look down at my palms folded neatly in my lap, the way I once did. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth but I am unfazed. I stare at him a few moments longer then I stand quickly. The smile drops. I stalk loudly on the wooden floor, but I slow once I reach the door, knowing he is staring at my back, my broad shoulders. I, then, slip through quietly. I get in my car but I don’t drive away. Instead, I breathe deep a few times and wait. Every car has rolled out of the parking lot, into the oncoming seven-o-clock traffic. I touch up my lip gloss and tuck in my work shirt. He rounds the corner. He is in a brown blazer, jeans, and stylishly scuffed brown loafers. He glances toward my car and

quickly scans the empty parking lot. He walks up as I turn the car on and roll the window down. He comes to stand outside my red Camry, shoving one hand in his pocket. He playfully nudges my shoulder and I smile shyly at him. “What’s up,” Quincy says. “You tell me,” I say, quietly. “I didn’t think you’d wait,” he says. “Well, I—maybe I shouldn’t have.” I look up at him. He has put on his sunglasses, I cannot see his eyes. “I’m glad you did,” he says, and he touches my face. I flinch, but only a little. Did he feel it? “You hungry? Follow me to Dale Mabry. l’ll text you what looks good.” With that, he turns and walks to his car under the shade of the large oak. I watch him in my side mirror. I even hit the switch to make the view wider, so I can see his uneven gait. He swings a slender leg into the car. He rolls slowly out of the parking lot, the gravel grumbling under his tires. This, whatever this is, started a couple of months ago. My mother said it was nothing, Quincy calling me up to help him with his business plan. But then she also said to trust my gut. My gut was telling me I’m too big for this, too much older, that much smarter. But my heart was shivering up against me

like I was thirteen again. I think I wanted it to be nothing. But every time I think it has left me, it is still waiting, pushing, pacing. I can’t remember when I started thinking I could make things different. It is a blur, just like the day in kindergarten when I hid that cookie in the lunch line for the first time. It occurred to me that I had changed my mind about him at Sister Helen’s funeral. I turned toward Quincy and his wife and his new baby and his eyes met mine. I was trying to be friendly but feelings that I pray away had been sticking to the stove lately and simmering just beneath the brim so I had been less than warm to Quincy in passing. Those pools of honey he calls eyes met mine and he held my gaze, then we both looked away only to meet right there again. In a moment, he’d snatched me back to a heart that didn’t need to hold him anymore. It made me angry. I walk into this rather large P.F. Chang’s after following the directions in Quincy’s text. Two floors of people clinking bowls and chop sticks and talking loudly. Quincy says it is one of his favorite places. Has he brought her here? I sway a little on my heels, my knees wobbly. My hands are unnaturally cold, colder than usual. I focus my eyes briefly on couples around the room, absentmindedly telling the hostess I can find my party, thanks. I look up, under

the orange glow of the chandeliers, he sits looking down at me. I will myself to walk forward—don’t trip— and up the stairs, not too fast but not slow enough that he’ll think I’m out of shape. Oh, what does it matter? It feels just like the first time I’m seeing him, even though it’s years later. I don’t think I will ever know him enough and he will never know me for it to be comfortable and familiar. It is dangerous for me to meet him. But I knew this time I wouldn’t stop myself when I drove to the chapel where I knew he’d be playing. I found a place in the pews and I thought about feeling sorry, at first. But then he looked up and saw me and I found myself thinking about having. I think he will be okay no matter what. But I don’t know if I can survive this. I still remember that night we ended. Not by the mind’s memory but from the tightness at the top of my throat, the way I had to work my eyes to not cry and I made my voice come down a few decibels when I told Quincy’s nephew that I was not going to cry. Even though I was. Quincy’s voice was dead. He stood there facing me, his long arms dangling at his sides. He was ending our relationship. He’d chosen her. He said the words. Clearly. Bluntly. But there were too many open spaces. I couldn’t understand. I just wanted

my brother to take me home. I couldn’t stand out there any longer in his family’s front yard and look okay. I used to relive it and all that followed, anywhere and at any time. I’d be embracing our pastor after church and think about how Quincy’s girlfriend was the pastor’s granddaughter and began wondering if she approved of the happy couple. I’d tense up as she squeezed me and murmured the usual Sunday blessings. When she released, I’d still be back three years ago, reminiscing and putting pieces together. I’d shuffle to the lobby, feeling my way along the wall, grimacing as if in physical pain. And just like that I’d steel myself. Get it together. My own voice in my mind was enough to bring me back to hugging and greeting people I grew up loving. There is a book that sits in the front lobby of the church, behind a glass door. It is titled the Tree of Anger and its bright red covering depicts a large gnarled tree with clawing roots extending down. It amazes me how I could still love him so much. I reach the top of the staircase and I have this funny itch on my face but I am trying not to smile. I don’t want to give him anything for free. I walk up to the table

and he is on his feet, glibly pulling out my chair and touching my wrist for a moment. I perch on the edge of the chair as if I will leave in a minute or two. Up close, I can smell the mountain air scent he has worn since college and I see his long fingers and stubby brown fingernails. I stare straight into his eyes, almost holding my breath. “This is nice,” he says. I raise my eyebrows in response. It has been so long since we spoke regularly. I am not sure of what he will say next. Tennis balls are being launched in my chest while I stare at the menu. I know he is watching me and I feel this tiny moment of excitement for what lies ahead. A nondescript waiter steps up to the table and asks for our drinks, but I will remember him now because while I am ordering my standard ice-cold water with a bowl of three or four lemons on the side, Quincy has taken to mimicking what I say and chuckling under his breath, like he used to. This leads me to gaze at his throat for a few seconds while my eyes light up and the waiter is struck by our sheer idiocy. I rub my hands on my thighs warming them, and I feel that wordless connection I could be led to believe we’ll always have. All I ever have to do is wait for it.

“So what are you up to these days,” he asks, when the waiter pours our drinks. He folds his hands together and leans forward to listen. “Well, I’ve been given the lead on this marketing deal at my work. It’s definitely taking its toll but I love it.” “You’re doing your thing. I knew it.” he said, grinning. I’m a bit taken aback since we never agreed about what I should do with my life.

this question. I don’t want to know about wifey or Jr. “Thanks to you, I’m getting into the studio for some recording time for G2, the group I’m producing. Their band leader is a real stickler for contracts and such.” “G2, huh? I had heard you were with them.” “Who have you been talking to to find out about me?” he teased. “Uh-uh,” I murmured, “NTN.”

“Ahh, well, you know,” I said, shyly. “I like to do what I can do when I can do it,” I quoted Chris Tucker, an all-time favorite, snickering. He laughed softly, stirring sugar into his coffee with a pensive look on his face.

“What?”

“What else is going on?” he asks, looking up as he reached the end of the question.

By the time the food arrives we are conversing about his writing. “Music the only thing I was doing for a lil’ minute, ya know? But then I had to write that piece for this magazine Sean was working on and then one thing led to another.” He says, licking barbeque off his fingers. I don’t like the habit.“Ha!” I’m tickled by this. “You used to write me poems.

“Umm everything is good. Fam’s doing well. My girl KK is coming to visit next weekend. Is that what you mean?” I search my mind for something exciting, something to impress him. Nothing comes mind that I could actually share. “Yeah.” he looks disappointed. “What’s going on with you?”I ask this in the spirit of reciprocity but not before I considered how I do not want him to answer

“Need to know,” I said in my obviously-tone. “Oh!” he said.

That was your real start as a writer. I want credit!” “Aw, come on. I was just a kid, I didn’t know what I was doing,” he retorts.

“No, you were good at it. Trust. You weren’t Claude McKay or anything yet but you had skills.” I say. “Remember, that one called Better Days? That was definitely not some lame kid trying to get his girl to drop her panties!” “Whoa,” he says, laughing. I lean forward and slap his arm playfully. “You know what I mean.” I say, almost giddy now. I am suddenly aware of the middle- aged man in a worn brown canvas jacket adjacent to us, sipping spoonfuls of soup. I see his wife place her napkin in her lap, her Blackberry blinking at the edge of the table. I hear glass plates being cleared off a table behind me. Through the wall of windows, I glance to see the street- lamped night interrupted just a little more by an occasional car, lighting its way to and from anywhere. I want to remember every detail now that I know it’s good. “That was a heartbreaker! I cried when I read it and you know how often I do that.” In fact, it’s a source of pride for me, how little I cry. I’ve cried for him a few times and regretted it.“Well, I didn’t cry when I wrote it but it was definitely raw for me.” “We’d just gotten back together. I always wondered if you wrote it before or did you write it, thinking back to how it felt.” I say. He leans forward across the table to me.

“I felt it when it was really happening. But that’s how I am. I can’t write it or say it unless it’s over. I wrote it one night and I didn’t know I was going to let you read it. I just carried it around folded up in my pocket for a few days and then, we went to the movies. I asked you for your purse and I put it in, remember that?”

“It’s true. I did pray. I knew I’d messed up bad and before I could make it right, you had met Damian. It was kinda like seeing you for the first time. You were different with him.” I look down at my plate of half-eaten potstickers and broccoli. Quincy’s telling me this now. It’s unsettling to picture him not knowing what to do to have me.

I smile at him, and he knows I want it quiet for a few seconds. I see the words on that paper I lost so long ago, right in his eyes. It was kind of like his other poems in that he made up the exact situation but the people and the emotions were us. In this one, he meets a girl at the park. They hit it off but he can see she carries this sadness. Before long, she is telling him how easy he is to talk to, blah blah. So she tells him she has a boyfriend. She makes it clear they can only be friends and they exchange phone numbers. She keeps her word, they do become friends. But then they are falling hard, so everything hurts.

“Damian was different,” is all I manage to say when I look up and his gaze is where I left it.

“I went home and prayed that you and me would have better days” I say, softly. “The line was something like that, right?” He nods. Our waiter, a middle-aged man with tufts of brown hair, comes up to the table, sees we are having a moment and discreetly backs away. I am grateful to him. He is old school, not like most of the waiters today.

“You were. Or you were an aspiring actor. Either one.” The silence gathering between us is becoming uncomfortable. We could never be this honest, this real with each other. It was the end of us and the beginning for Quincy and Eva. She actually thought I’d be in their wedding. I stupidly agreed to, but God in heaven decided now, of all times, He should intervene. Or now

“Yeah.” “For the longest, I thought this was all so easy for you.” “What was easy?” he asks, crinkling his brow. I sigh and lean back a little. “I don’t know. Everything, I guess. It’s like I thought twice about whatever happened between us. You just went with it.” “Ouch! You make me sound cold.” He says, laughing humorlessly.

It’s true. I did pray. I knew I’d messed up bad that I think of it, maybe that wasn’t Him either. Quincy and Eva wound up putting away those glossy wedding catalogs for a shotgun wedding in the pastors’ office. They were pregnant. “We could talk about this all night, couldn’t we,” I ask in a low voice. “Never mind the elephant in the room.” “Yeah, well. I don’t know what you want me to say.” He’s lying and the way he is snatching his napkin out of his lap and onto his plate shows me he is irritated, too. I shouldn’t say anything more, I should just let him sweat it out. “It’s not that serious,” I say, quickly. That’s not true, either. He sighs and looks at me, sourly. I sip my water and squeeze the last drop out of the third or fourth lemon into the glass. The check has been sitting at the table edge for a while now but suddenly, it captivates Quincy’s attention. He picks it up and takes a look while fishing out his wallet. “All I’m saying is that if this were a movie or some song you were writing, it would be tragic and romantic and all that. But this is happening and it’s not. Romantic, I mean.” I take in a sharp breath, agonizing over if I’ve finally said too much. “It sucks.” he say.

“Yes, it does.” I say quietly. A long pause takes over. I pull my arms into my sides, glancing around the room, but seeing nothing. Waiting. “You!” He groans, pretending to reach for my neck. My eyes snap back to his and I am suddenly grinning. “Whatever,” I scoff, tossing a generous tip on the table for my beloved waiter. “This is all on you.” I am teasing, which is as close as we’ll get right now to blame. I put the strap of my purse on my shoulder and after he pays the bill, I watch him stand to his feet. He offers his hand. I stand and we walk side by side, bumping into each other. When we reach the bottom of the stairs, his hand slips behind my back and I am sucking in, ever so conscious of my posture. Then I was am next to the curb, fumbling for my keys in my large carry-on item a.k.a. purse, and Quicy clears his throat and rocks on his heels. “Soooo…” he says in what he believes is a light tone. I don’t even look up. “So what do you wanna do?” he finally asks. I look up and meet his eyes. I smile like I do when I am lying or just nervous—a half smile, my eyebrows raised. “About?” I ask. “You know.”

“Do I? It’s been a while. I’m not sure we still speak the same language.” “Ouch.” He looks down the street. “Naw. I didn’t mean it that way. Just saying.” I say. “Okayyy.” “I know I’m being a little weird. Sorry. This is what I’ve always wanted, right? It’s just not happening how I thought it would.” He steps up closer to me. “You’re scared.” “Maybe.” “You are. I get it.” I sigh and smile at him, tucking my curls behind my ear. “We’ll go slow. I’ve wanted this too. It’s going to be fine.” Quincy tells me in a soft way, like I’m his child, a bow-legged one-year old with pudgy hands and a smile like his dad. “Maybe.” I say again. I punch him lightly in his stomach and he pretends to double over. Then he head-butts me in the stomach, wrapping his arms around my waist and growling. I laugh even though I think we look really silly on the side of the road. When he stands up, our faces are close. He kisses me quick on the cheek and I say nothing. I open the car door and I get in, realizing my arms and neck are warm. I tell him good night. He shuts the door and mouths good night, placing his hand on my window. I roll down the window and he

hears If I Were Your Woman playing on the oldies station I occasionally listen to. He burst out laughing and all I can do is shake my head and smile incredulously. Quincy leans in the window and his shaven cheek glides across mine. He finds my mouth and it is the best still moment of my life. I hear a car roll by slowly and squeal a stop at the light, and heavy footsteps, but I am so still and he is suspended in the window, only his lips and tongue moving me. The seconds are so long that it is not easy to remember we havn’t been there all night. In a lithe slip of tongue, it is over, and he is pulling his face away and I look at him stunned, my mouth wet and swollen. The song is still playing. He began to hear it again as he rests on the door. He starts to laugh, quiet at first and then louder. “Night, Quincy!” I say in mock frustration. I pull out into the street and in the rearview mirror, he is walking off behind me, still laughing. I pull a gold band from my pocket. Surprisingly, I had forgotten about it. I stare at it, turning it from side to side in one hand, propping it up at the top of the steering wheel. I laugh, too, squinting to see what is left of him in the dark. I laugh so hard, tears enter the corners of my eyes and fall. He’s right. We will take it slow. It will be all right. This time, it will be even better.

Kate Brody grew up in New Jersey, but she currently lives in Washington, DC where she is a senior at Georgetown University. Kate writes fiction and a little poetry. Some of her work has recently appeared in Pif, Red River Review and 34th Parallel. She hopes to become a legitimate writer some day so that she can dedicate a book to her two wonderful sisters. And, you know, buy food and stuff. When sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not writing, Kate can usually be found eating ice cream, playing with her puppy, Frankie, or reading. Kate received Georgetownâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Ora Mary Phelam Poetry Prize in 2012 and is currently a fellow with the Lannan Center for poetics and social practice.

THE DONOR

“Go get her,” Charlotte says to me, stopping the car outside of the entrance to Houlihan’s. “I’ll find a spot on the side.” “Are you coming in?” “Nah, just grab her. I’ll wait. We still have to go back and get Mom.” “Mom’s coming?” “Yeah.” Charlie rolls down her window. A cool breeze makes me shiver. I should have grabbed a sweatshirt. “Pass me that.” I hand her the cigarettes that slid over to my side of the dashboard. “She insisted,” she says and lights one up. “She’s not going to be happy,” I say, fingers clutching the door handle. “Avery or Mom?” “Both, I guess.” “Yeah,” Charlie says, blowing smoke at her reflection in the side view mirror. “Just hurry.” I get out of the car and make my way around the corner to Houlihan’s. This strip mall is new with unblemished sidewalks and parking lot stripes so white that they reflect light. People are pretty excited about it. The whole complex is laid out in a kind of horseshoe with a Target in the middle. A Super Target actually since it sells groceries

as well. Houlihan’s is all the way at one end of the horseshoe next to a salon that is named for a girl Avery used to go to school with. Ginger’s.

“Sure thing, Mounds. How’s it going?”

A middle-aged man in a baseball cap and a windbreaker holds open the door for me as I approach the restaurant. I try to pick up the pace in these too big flip flops of Charlie’s as two kids pass through behind him. Then their mom. He wasn’t holding it for me. He lets the door fall back to where it was.

Ray nods and disappears into the back of Houlihan’s.

“A little cold for sandals?” the mom asks as I pass by on the sidewalk. I ignore her. She’s not my mom. As my eyes adjust to the dimness of the restaurant, Ray comes into focus at the hostess stand. “Mounds!” he says, before I have even fully identified him. Ray has explained before why he calls me “Mounds.” It still doesn’t make much sense to me, but the logic follows something along the lines of: 1) I am the youngest Hill sister. 2) Thus, I am “Little Hill.” 3) A little hill can sometimes be called a mound. 4) Mounds (plural) are his favorite candy. It’s not the worst nickname I’ve ever had. “Hey Ray. Can you get Ave?” I ask.

“Can you just get her? We don’t have a lot of time; she has an appointment.”

This place has a definite smell. There’s probably like a hundred two-for-one entrees ground into the carpet. I’m convinced that’s why the lighting is so dim — so that you can’t see the stains. Everyone Ave works with is an idiot; I’m sure they drop things all the time. Ray and Avery emerge from the darkness a few moments later. Avery whips off her half apron and shoves it at Ray. “Put this away for me.” She turns to me. “Let’s go.” “Bye, Ivy,” Ray calls as we walk out. “He’s so in love with you,” I say once we’re out of earshot. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Everyone says stuff like that to me all the time. It’s because I’m the youngest. By a long shot. But even Charlie agrees with me on this one. Ray drives Ave to work every day, pulling up in his old Mustang, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed no matter what the hour. Always carrying two coffees.

He wasn’t holding it for me. One with extra cream, no sugar, like Ave likes it.

or a kid throwing a pretend temper tantrum. I guess I smile.

And she never says thank you.

“What?”

The Ivy thing is because Ave is so smart. She did two years at Notre Dame before she came back home to help out. When Dad died. Ray thinks Notre Dame is an Ivy League school. It’s not, but none of us correct him, because we’re pretty sure Ave secretly likes it. At least, that’s what Charlie says.

I shake my head and look at the ground. “Nothing.”

Avery sniffs her shirt as we walk out to the car. “I smell fucking gross,” she says. “That chicken wing sauce slops all over.”

“Char,” Avery runs up to her window. “Are you smoking? Put that out.”

“You can probably change real quick at home,” I say. “Or Mom can bring you a different shirt.” Avery stops on the sidewalk. “Mom’s coming?” “I thought you knew.” “No. Why does everyone have to come to this?” “I don’t know. I didn’t know she was coming. Charlie just told me.” Avery has this way of frowning, where her bottom lip actually comes up over her top one. It looks like a caricature of a sad clown

Avery runs ahead to the car where Charlie is still smoking with the window open. Sunglasses on, head back against the rest, smoke leaking out of the side of her mouth, she could be asleep. She works a lot too.

Charlie opens her mouth and her cigarette drops onto the asphalt. She sticks out her tongue. I get in the backseat of the car. “Are you kidding me?” Ave continues from outside. “You’re filling the car with smoke? And Mom’s coming now?” Her voice keeps getting higher in pitch. Never a good sign. “I can’t go in there with ranch dressing in my hair, smoke on my clothes and a crazy person in tow. I have to see the doctor.” “I’m sorry, Ave.” Charlie lifts her sunglasses and pushes them back against her blond hair. She reaches a hand out of the window and massages her index finger into the space between Avery’s eyebrows where folds of skin have scrunched up. “But we’re late. So get in the car, hon.”

When people meet us, they usually think Charlie is the oldest. She is the tallest. And the prettiest. She never gets stressed out. Well, she never looks stressed out. Ave claims that “constant low level anxiety” is what makes Charlie “susceptible to addictive and impulsive behavior,” and that she’s really always stressed out but that basically she just self-medicates all the time. Avery is actually the oldest. And she’s only half-sisters with me and Charlie. Ave’s dad split when Mom was pregnant and then Mom married Dad before Ave turned two, so she considered Dad her dad. She just looks a little different than us. Charlie and I are tall. Like really tall. Charlie is just barely over six feet, and I am almost five ten already. And I’m only thirteen. I might end up even taller than Charlie. Ave is five four and change, but she tells everyone she’s five five. She has this crazy curly dark hair that we think must be from her other side, but she has the same eyes as the rest of us. The same blue-green eyes as Mom. “How are you feeling?” Charlie asks. “Fine,” Avery says. “I don’t know. Glad for this to be over for a bit. You can still pick up my shift tomorrow, right?” “Yeah. No prob.” “Okay. Ray said it was fine.”

Charlie laughs. “Of course he did.” “What does that mean?”

“You want some food or anything real quick?” Charlie asks as we pass a Dunkin Donuts on the highway.

“Throw that kid a bone already,” Charlie says. I laugh from the backseat, and Avery reaches back without looking to give me a Charlie horse. She misses.

“No, I can’t,” Ave says. “And we’re going to be late already.”

“Nice try, I-vy,” I say, dragging out the syllables of her nickname like a playground chant. This time Charlie laughs. Avery looks at her and raises a fist over the center console.

“Because of the anesthesia,” I say. Avery looks back at me. “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” Charlie says. “I’m driving.” “Idiots,” Avery says. She’s blushing though. “I just need a cover, okay? If you don’t want to do it —” “Take a chill pill. I said I could do it,” Charlie says. “I’m off tomorrow anyway.” Charlie works at a nursing home. She does dumb stuff like bringing people their food and “checking in” on them. Stuff you don’t need a degree for. She actually loves it. On her Facebook, Charlie has listed her job as “Watching Old People Eat Ice Cream” at Cedar Lane Nursing Home. On days that Avery has the car, I have to go with her to pick Charlie up, because she won’t go in there. Ave says it smells like death, but it really just smells like cafeteria food and air fresheners.

“Why can’t you?”

Ave squints her eyes. “No, you’re right, Chicken.” She turns back to the road. “Paying attention. Can you call Mom?” “Sure.” “Tell her to be ready in five.” “Okay.” “And that we’re running late so not to fuck around and do something weird.” I dial the number for the home phone, praying Mom picks up. I have to hit the four’s extra hard. This phone is Avery’s old one. It’s on its way out. I got it in middle school which was pretty early. Earlier than Ave and Charlie got phones. The only reason I did is that Charlie doesn’t even use a cell phone anymore, which is why pickups are such projects. Come on. Pick up, Mom. Avery is going to be so mad at her if we’re late.

“Hello?” “Mom,” I say. “Hi, we’re on our way back.” “Okay.” “Are you ready?” “Sure, baby.” “Really?” I say. “You’re ready to go in five? We’re going to be home in five.” Avery calls back from the front. “What’s she saying? Tell her I’m serious. She can’t make us late.” “We’re already going to be late,” Charlie says. “Turn down the radio, Char.” Ave has her whole body torqued around the seat, staring at me. Charlie turns down the radio but keeps humming as we pass my school. “Ask her if she’s sure she wants to come,” Ave says to me. A crossing guard stops our car. “Mom,” I say. “Yes?” “You’re sure you want to come?” “Tell her it’s just a lot of waiting,” Avery says. “It’s just a lot of waiting,” I echo into the receiver. “Are you fucking kidding?” Ave says. She groans as the guard lets a stream

of yellow buses leaving the high school parking lot pull out in front of our car. “I know it’s just waiting, baby, but your sister needs us there,” Mom says. “I’ll see you girls soon. Get off the phone. You shouldn’t be driving and talking.” “What? I’m not.” “Bye, baby. Love you.” She hangs up. Avery is staring at me, eyes wide. “So?” I shake my head and stammer before words come out. “I don’t know. She says she’s coming.” Avery turns back to the front again, slouching into her chair. “Yikes,” Charlie says. “It will be nice to get you off those shots. Get your mood back to normal.” “This is my normal mood,” Avery says. “Tired.” Charlie turns up the radio and continues to hum to songs she doesn’t know as we head home. From the backseat, I can see into the side view mirror on Ave’s side. She periodically leans her head just out of the window, eyes closed, her curly ponytail flying around and hitting her in the face. “Ave,” I say.

“Yeah?” She looks down and makes eye contact with my reflection in the mirror. “Are you scared?” “Not at all, Chicken. It’s perfectly safe, I promise. It’s not a real surgery.” “No, I know,” I say. “Nevermind.” “She’s going to be fine,” Charlie says. “Don’t worry. And hey, when this is all over — no more shots. You have to be happy about that.” Charlie is referring to the selfadministered injections that Ave has had to keep in the fridge for the last couple weeks to shoot into her own arms and legs. It’s so that she makes more eggs than normal or something. I don’t know all the details. All I know is that the needles are huge. I don’t like needles. “No, I know,” I say. “I meant, are you scared that there’s going to be a baby out there though?” Charlie stops humming. “Like a baby that’s yours is going to be out there.” Ave just stares at me in the mirror. I look down at my lap. Back up. I wish I hadn’t asked. I wish I’d asked sooner. Avery opens her mouth to speak, but closes it.

Charlie is giving herself whiplash looking from Ave to the road to me to the road and back again. “I don’t know that Ave needs questions like that right now, kiddo,” Charlie says. Avery turns around in her seat and makes real eye contact with me. A curl falls loose from her ponytail and she tucks it behind her ear with one hand. She has more rings than she has fingers. Ave’s eyes are are wet and red. I feel my own eyes welling up, my nose starting to get tingly and runny. I stare down at my feet. Charlie’s flip flops used to be white but now they’re a pale brownish gray. Charlie fills the silence. “Avery is doing a really great thing for a great couple,” Charlie says. Out of my peripheral vision, I see her continue to pivot from Ave to the road and back to Ave. She pushes her sunglasses up on her head with one hand. “And it’s going to be their baby.” Avery still hasn’t said anything. Avery ignores Charlie and stares at the chair next to mine for a few seconds, saying nothing. She looks like she’s thinking of something to say, maybe. Pools of tears quiver on ledges of her eyelids. She looks back to me and presses her lips into a sort of smile even though her eyebrows pull together in the center the way they have to when you try to be happy when you’re sad.

She winks at me and one of the tears that was balancing falls in a single straight line down her cheek. She turns back around, and lays her head down on her elbow in the window. “Yeah,” she says. In the side view I can see her again with her eyes closed, letting the wind whip her hair into a frenzy. Charlie has her hands at a stiff ten and two now, and she’s staring straight ahead at the red light. “The people who are going to have this baby want it very much. They are going to take great care of it,” she says. “She’s doing a good thing by giving them her eggs.” “I know,” I say. And I do. But that wasn’t the question. “Yeah,” Ave says again. Charlie turns up the radio and we spend the rest of the way home in silence. Me in the back feeling guilty, Charlie humming the wrong notes just to make noise and Ave with her head hanging out of the window like an old dog. We pull up to the house with twenty minutes to get Avery to the fertility clinic. Mom is sitting on the front steps with her pocketbook in her lap. “That’s weird,” Charlie says.

“Hi, babies,” Mom says as she gets into the backseat with me. “You seem chipper today,” Avery says. “Yes,” Mom says. “I’m feeling pretty good lately. I think these new meds are really working.” “Super,” Avery says. She turns to Charlie. “Let’s go.” My first week back at school after Dad’s funeral, Mom forgot to pick me up every single day. I waited for two hours the first day before I realized she wasn’t coming. I didn’t have a cell phone then either. Still, Charlie and I thought it would pass. We thought she would deal with it like the rest of us, maybe go back to nursing eventually. She didn’t. It took three months after Dad died for everything to really fall apart. Or, maybe it’s better to say it took three months for things to get bad enough for me to realize that’s what was happening. We were falling apart at the seams. Dad was the seams. Charlie was the one who took over first. She did her best to figure things out, to weed through the mountain of paperwork, to try to get Mom out of bed, try to get her to eat something. Eventually though, she had to call Ave. When things got really bad.

Ave left school and came home. She got Mom into therapy and worked out a payment plan with the hospital. The thing they don’t tell you is that even if your dad dies — even if none of it works — you still have to pay for the surgery. And the medicine that tore him apart in front of you. And then your mom’s therapy. Ave even set up a schedule with the two cars. She and Charlie share one for work, and Mom gets the other with the condition that she drive herself to therapy and take care of the grocery shopping and housework with my help. It works out okay. Charlie’s been telling work stories since we left the driveway. Mom’s the only one paying attention at this point. “Boris is just like that,” Charlie says. “He hides his pills and pretends to eat. He’s funny though.” All of Charlie’s friends are geriatric. “Maybe Boris suffers from some mild drepression himself, Charlotte,” Mom says. She’s holding my hand over the ketchup stain on the fabric of the middle chair. “That kind of behavior can be symptomatic. He should try what I’m on now.” “Well, he’s already on anti-depressants actually,” Charlie says. “It’s pretty much standard when you’re terminal.” “Can we not?” Ave interjects.

“What?” Mom says. Ave doesn’t turn around. She is staring straight out of her window at the strip mall on the highway. It is set up just like the one where she works, only here, there is a Chili’s where her Houlihan’s would be. “Can we just not talk about antidepressants?” Ave says. I suddenly wish Mom hadn’t come. “Like for once, honestly.” Charlie turns the radio up, but Ave turns it off. “I have a headache.” Things are much better since Mom started therapy, and everybody knows it. Still, the constant psychobabble is a pretty annoying side effect. It drives Ave crazy. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something, Avery,” Mom says after a couple minutes of fragile silence. “I’ve been feeling really pretty good lately, and I think that I could stop the therapy and maybe go back to work again.” “What?” Avery says. She’s shaking her head in the side view mirror. “No. We’re not trying that again. You can’t be back in the hospital. You can’t handle it. It undermines all of the progress you’ve made. No.” “I really think I could do it, Avery, I think –“ “No,” Avery cuts her off. “I’m sorry, but no.” “Avery,” Mom says.

“Mom,” Charlie says. “Come on. We’ll talk about this later. Now’s not the time.” “I wanted to talk about this now because I think that your sister doesn’t have to go through with this,” Mom says. “It’s not too late.” “It’s too late, Mom. It’s too late,” Avery says. She’s sitting up straight now, her fingers buried in the hair above each ear as she massages her temples with her palms, elbows in the air like a boxer. “I just don’t know why you have to do this,” Mom says. “I want to help. I don’t think you should go through with this.” “Mom, just enough,” Charlie says under her breath. It’s too late. Avery whips around and I jolt back against my seat. “You can’t help,” she says. “You do the opposite of help us.” “Avery,” Mom says, shaking her head. I hold my breath. “Let me try.” I want her to shut up so badly I think about just screaming. About just craning my neck back and yelling at the top of my lungs. Avery’s face is still red and streaky from before. Her nose starts running a little out of one side. “Do you think I want to do this?” Her voice cracks. “Do you think I’m dying to sell my ova to total strangers?”

It’s too late, Mom. It’s too late, “I thought you were selling your eggs,” Charlie says. Avery turns and glares at her. “That’s what that is,” I say quietly. Maybe I should just open the door and roll out while we’re moving. “Then don’t,” Mom says, like she’s found the perfect solution. Avery bites her top lip with her bottom row of teeth and exhales loudly through her nose. I’m sure that Charlie is holding her breath like me. “I have to,” Ave says. “It’s nine grand and someone has to pay the bills.” She is talking very slowly and I can see the muscles of her jaw pulsing through the skin in her face. “Someone has to pay for you to see that fucking quack doctor so that you don’t go completely AWOL.” We pass the Banana Republic on 35 that lets me know that we are just two turns away from the clinic now, and I am transfixed by Avery. Her eyes look like they are on fire, the blue rings around her irises glowing like burners on low heat. We pull into the parking lot with her still staring at Mom like that. I am paralyzed in this seat, but I manage to turn my head slowly, following Ave’s gaze to Mom with my peripheral vision. Mom is looking down at her lap and crying. Silently crying as tears flow in a steady stream down

past her chin to her neck. She is a pretty crier. Her face doesn’t get red or scrunched up or swollen. She nods. “I’m sorry.” Charlie circles the crowded parking lot twice before she finally finds a spot. I open my window to avoid suffocating from the silence. I’m freezing in this stupid T shirt, but I feel a little closer to escape this way. A compact car pulls out right in front of the door, and Charlie pulls in crookedly. “Premio,” she says, trying to lighten the mood. “How is this not a handicapped spot?” The space is claustrophobically small, and out side of my window, a black SUV is just inches away. The dark, blank windows are rolled up, reflecting a distorted version of my face. I look away. The digital clock on the radio is frozen at 3:26. Ave is late. A few weeks ago, Charlie and I were going through some old pictures, finding good ones of Dad to save and put up in our rooms. We came upon a picture of Mom and Dad from their wedding reception. In the photo, Mom is already four months pregnant with Charlie, but you can’t tell. They are dancing; Mom’s arched back a little with Dad leaning into the gap, hovering just over her. Her long dirty blonde hair has already come out of its updo and both of their foreheads glisten with sweat. He is staring at her, eyes soft in the corners, smiling just a little, the way

Ave does, just a secret smile, lips pressed together. She is looking up at him laughing, eyes wide like the ocean. And if you look really closely, in the corner, you can see a woman in a green dress, my aunt Lisa, holding a toddler in a tiny dress of the same color. The baby’s little feet dangle barefoot in midair as she stares on at Mom and Dad like everyone else. Already, she had a mop of dark curls. The night I found it, I took the picture to Ave’s room to show her. She took it from me and laughed. “Wow,” she said. “This is great.” “Yeah, that’s you.” Ave nodded slowly. “She was really in love with him, you know.” “I know,” I said. “Not a good idea,” Ave said. “What’s not?” “I don’t know.” Ave rubbed her face with one hand and sighed. “Needing someone else that much. Trying so hard to save them that you stop taking care of yourself.” She handed the picture back to me. I still don’t know if she was talking about Mom or herself. Avery opens the car door before she unclicks her seatbelt. For a few seconds, she

sits with her handle on the door, staring straight through the windshield at the brick building. Charlie is staring at her, and Mom, to my left, sits with her head hung limply against her chest. When the seatbelt clicks off and Avery starts to get out, she lifts her head. “Love you, baby.” “Yeah,” Avery says as the car door slams behind her. It’s Charlie who speaks first. “Mom,” she says. Mom makes a quiet Mm sound in response. “This is very hard for her.” Charlie’s voice is a strange tone, frog-like from the back of her throat. It takes me a second to realize she might be getting upset. I’ve only seen Charlie cry twice. I think Charlie feels guilty because she can’t help out the way Avery can. Or maybe just because Ave gave up so much. Is giving up so much. “I know it is, Charlotte,” Mom says. There’s an edge to her voice now that takes me by surprise. She practically hisses Charlie’s name through her teeth. “That’s why she can’t do it.” Charlie inhales and shakes her head. From the backseat, I can hear her let her breath slip out through her nostrils in one long whoosh. Mom reaches up and puts her hand on Charlie’s shoulder. Her voice

softens. “I’m just trying to help, Charlotte. I can help. You girls don’t give me any credit.” I can feel myself holding my breath in the pause that follows. Sometimes they forget I’m even around. Charlie starts the car and I exhale as the engine rumbles. Thank god we’re leaving here. “Wait,” Mom says. “Just wait.” “Why?” Charlie turns back. “Ave’s going to be out cold for like an hour once they start so we can get some of that soup she likes from that market near your doctor’s office. And some feel good type stuff. I told her we’d be back for when she wakes up.” “It’s not a real surgery,” I say under my breath. Charlie still can’t wrap her head around what the words “noninvasive” or “outpatient” mean. Ave’s not going to arbitrarily want soup or balloons. “Just wait,” Mom repeats. “Wait a little. Just a minute or two. She might be back.” Charlie thumps her forehead against the steering wheel melodramatically. “She’s not coming back,” she says, issuing each word to a beat with a new thump. The three of us remain silent for a bit, with just the engine humming. The car next to us leaves, its female driver shimmying past Ave’s empty seat with a disdainful

look towards Charlie for parking so close. Charlie doesn’t even notice. She rolls her window down and retrieves her cigarettes from the cupholder, lighting another up. “Charlotte,” Mom says. She lets out a little whimper. “What?” Charlie says. She takes a long drag and blows the smoke out her window, but some drifts towards us in the back. “You said you were going to stop smoking.” “I’m working on it,” Charlie says flatly. “Listen, if we’re just going to sit here for no reason, I’m going to smoke.” “She’s coming back.” “Mom,” I say quietly, “she’s really not.” Mom is looking at me with her eyes closed shaking her head and smiling. “Mom.” I reach out and touch her arm. She opens her eyes and she looks at me. “She has to do this. They’ve already paid for all the treatments. It’s over.” “Thank you,” Charlie says, exasperated. “Jesus Christ.” “Honey,” Mom says to me, ignoring Charlie, still smiling. “I cancelled her appointment. I called this morning and cancelled it.” “What?” Charlie whips around from the front.

I’m her mother and I want what is best for her “Charlotte, I cancelled it,” Mom says assertively. She sounds for a second like she used to sound. Authoritative. Like the woman who used to wait up for her second daughter to come home past curfew, cup of coffee in one hand, book in the other. “I’m her mother and I want what is best for her, so I cancelled it. She’ll thank me.” “Are you fucking – “ Charlie undoes her seatbelt and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind her. “Mom,” I say. “What did you do?” She just pats my hand and sits back in her seat. “It’s for the best, baby.” Charlie is marches into the brick building, throwing open the glass doors. Long blond hair blustering over her shoulder, leather boots up to her knees, she look like a Viking princess to me. She vanishes as the glass doors close behind her and I can see our car once again in their reflection. With only me and Mom in the back, the car seems empty. It might as well be. Mom and I sit in silence for five minutes. I watch each one tick by on the digital clock, unsure of what to expect. At minute two, I stand in my seat and reach up to the front to turn off the engine that Charlie left running. In the absence of its purring, the silence deepens. I wish for anything to happen in the parking lot, for a loud family to walk

by, for a fender bender, something to break the stale sound of my dread and Mom’s satisfaction as we wait for Ave and Charlie to return. I picture Charlie breaking her quick gait as she enters the lobby, changing it to a careful tip-toe as she comes up behind Ave at the secretary’s counter, who is arguing with that heavy set brunette who checks patients in. I picture Ave demanding to talk to the doctor as Charlie shushes her gently, taking her elbow, trying to explain what Mom did. I picture Ave storming out to the car, yelling in a high pitched voice words that only become clearer as she nears, Charlie lagging behind her despite her longer strides, pleading with her to calm down, please. I’m picturing all of this when Charlie walks out, graceful as a doe, calmly lowering her sunglasses over her eyes and pulling her canvas jacket tighter around her body. I turn to Mom who sits up straighter in her chair, leaning towards the driver’s seat as Charlie slides into the car and starts the engine back up. We are reversing before I know what is happening. Charlie with her arm around the seat in front of me, checking for parking lot traffic as she backs up the car. “What happened?” I ask. Mom has her mouth open and she’s shaking her head almost imperceptibly, but no words escape her lips.

“Nothing,” Charlie says. “I walked in there and Ave was already prepping. She’ll be done in like ninety minutes, they said.” We are pulling out of the parking lot now, onto the main drag and headed towards the expensive farmer’s market over here where Ave likes the soup. “What?” Mom says. “What? I called. I told them –“ “You left them a message,” Charlie says, cutting her off as we stop at a light. She adjusts her rearview to look back at Mom for a second. “They didn’t even hear it. They didn’t know what I was talking about until I told them and they checked the machine.” She moves her rearview back as the car in front of us begins to roll forward. Mom’s lips are pursed and she is shaking her head. I reach out to touch her shoulder but she throws me off and slams her fists against the back of Charlie’s seat. “Jesus!” Charlie says. “I’m driving.” “No,” Mom pounds the chair back again. She is shouting and crying at the same time. “No,” she keeps repeating. “I called. I called them.” Charlie pulls over onto the shoulder and stops the car. Traffic whizzes by Mom’s window as I unbuckle my seatbelt and slide

over closer to her. I put my arm around her back and she collapses into my body, less frail than she used to be, but still tiny. I feel her skeleton quivering under my fingers as her body heaves with violent sobs. I tighten my half embrace. It’s holding her together, I know it. “Mama,” Charlie says softly, turning around in her seat and putting her hand on Mom’s knee. “I’m going to get you home. Okay?” She looks at me. “I’ll go too,” I say. Charlie nods and turns back, pulling out onto the road and turning around, heading back towards the land of strip malls and Super Targets, heading back towards home, towards the room my dad used to sleep in that is now just a mourning place for lost loves and unknowable babies.

Kaylee Walsh is a senior at Georgetown University from Dallas, Texas completing a major in English and a minor in Justice and Peace Studies. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been a member of the investigative journalism team the Pearl Project, won the Georgetown Midnight Mug scholarship for creative writing, and recently completed an internship on Capitol Hill for the Congressional Institute on Adoption Agency. She hopes to pursue a career in family and adoption law, and publish a novel.

NINETEEN

It’s all grey. That’s the bit I love most, pretending it’ll stay that way. The grit under my shoes, scratching the cement just a bit more. The highway, sleeping except for the frantic stray bastard speeding home to his wife. The sky, all caught up in confusion between black and whitish blue. It’s even the air; the pumped churning clouds obscuring the golden arches of America’s fattest favorite. I scouted this place out before I decided to barge my way in. It’s what I love about a place full of neons next to the main road. They’s always open, even this early. There’s nobody in it. Nobody except a girl about my age behind the counter only she’s Hispanic and bored looking. She glances over me and taps nails long enough to pick the lock on the cash register on the countertop before glancing behind me as if to look for someone else. I stop in front of her and try to look like I’m scanning the menu while I tell my stupid heart to shut the fuck up. “Can I have a cup of water?” She doesn’t even answer stupid bitch. She just rolls her eyes and silently fills it behind the counter. The sound of ice grinding together from the metal spoon makes my tongue stick to my teeth. I haven’t had the spit to coat my tongue in two days besides what I stuck my head under that gas station sink even

though the stains scared me. My heart beats faster when there’s the inevitable tapping those nails against the keyboard, the beeps my pacemaker. “That’ll be .99 cents.” “No I’m not paying for it.” I grab for the cup impatiently, hoping I can dash out but also knowing it would be better if I didn’t. She raises a smooth polished black eyebrow over too much pink eyeshadow and slides it away. I could see the ice rattle slightly. I forced myself to be polite. “Can I speak to your manager?” She gave me a very sardonic smile. I could hear the panting waddles before I was even done with my sentence. Obviously there were only two people working. One for the front, and one for the back. It was grey time. Loser shift. “Can I help you ma’am?” He was stupidly fat and white. With slick shiny blonde hair wrapped up in his face like a little dollop of mayonnaise. “I want this glass of water.” “She won’t pay for it,” the stupid bitch snapped. I breathed slowly, trying to look smaller and sadder but also more patient than I had ever been in my whole damn life.

“It’s against state law to deny someone water when they ask for it. I know my rights.” “I’m sorry. I can’t give the cups away for free.” “So you’re charging me .99 cents for a cup? A stupid McDonald’s cup that I could pick up out of the trash on any street corner?” “I’m sorry but please leave.” His voice was hesitant, pleading. I could tell I was the first trouble that had ever come his way. So I went in for the kill, for the flitting look on his fat, innocent face. “You wouldn’t turn me down if I was a white girl living on the streets. You think if you give me a cup I’m going to steal your soda because I’m black.” He looked horrified. “No, no of course not!” I stuck my chin out at him. “You won’t give me a cup because you think I’m a thief. You wouldn’t give a thirsty girl water because you’re denying me un-alien rights.” “No, I’m sure you…that you’re…” he stuttered. “I can find a police officer. I can tell him that you refuse to give me water.” I declined to mention no police officer would ever have the time of day for a scrawny, washed up shit like me.

The manager came around the counter, lifting up the partition like it would help bridge the gap between him and me. “Look, what’s your name?” I remembered a book my momma had read to me as a kid. “Sandra.” “Sandra, how old are you?” I told him the truth, just to make his gut hurt more than his stupid French fries. “Nineteen.” He looked properly shocked. I knew it was cuz what I was wearing – which was what I could find. His tongue darted out to wet his fat already moist lips, revealing crooked, mustard yellow teeth. I stared at the beaded moisture hungrily, so much so I almost missed the question. “Where’s your family?” “Ain’t got nobody.” “Surely you must have somebody. A mother?” “Dead.” “A father?” “Jail.” “Grandparents?”

I shook my head. He seemed unable to speak. I told the stupid shit, not out of looking for pity or anything, but just because he was so damn ignorant. “I was a foster kid,” I said real quiet like.

“Well where are your foster parents?” I laughed a horrible harsh laugh and the girl behind the counter who had refused me water looked scared.

“I’m nineteen,” I repeated.

“So?”

“So when you’re nineteen it’s over. They send you away. You don’t get to live in a home anymore. You’re ‘phased out.’” I always liked this phrase. Like Star Trek or something. I had seen that show once, in home number six. They had been okay, before they decided to have real kids of their own. They had been nicer than number four, where they had made me go to church and thank them publicly for taking me in, all because my momma died and my daddy was in jail. Just another fucked up foster kid turned fairytale for a little while.

He looked horrified and there was a slick smooth sound that made the corners of my mouth twitch in victory. He didn’t know what it was though, and seemed to think I was about to cry. He patted my arm with his stupid fat fingers. I noticed he was married.

“I’m Sandra-fucking-rella.” Figures. But God who’d marry a five am McDonald’s manager? “Here.”

water. I didn’t want to screw this one up with my big mouth all over again. I gulped down the last trickle of ice water; I think it shocked my stomach into silence for once.

The cup descended in front of me, the cashier’s face impatiently sad.

“But if you need water,” he continued, “now is a good time to come in.”

“Everybody should have something.”

The cashier nodded.

I almost laughed, but all I could do was stare into the endless white ring at the bottom of the long tube. Fattie here gets a family. And all I get was a stupid cup.

“So I can come back?” I found this unbelievable.

“Sandra?” I jerked out of my reverie and smiled real good for them. I filled it up and drank it right there, the whole thing, so thirsty I had almost forgotten that I was. Foster kids who can’t afford nothing else end up on the streets. It was the sad fact of the fairytale. First I got too old to be cute anymore; too old to think about getting adopted. Then got too old to even get a house to live in or water to drink. I think my draining of the cup made them sadder than the fact I was a nineteen year old reject daughter. “Look,” the manager said in a low voice, “I can’t feed you.” “That’s okay,” I hurriedly said. “It’s okay.” I didn’t need to beg. I was just so happy for

“I’m Frank, by the way.” The manager shook my hand. “Lottie.” Her nails left little marks when she grabbed me but I didn’t care. I had won. “Well I’ll be damned,” I laughed, cracking a piece of ice sharply between my teeth and whistling through it, “I’m Sandra-fuckingrella.”

Anna Jolly is a senior English Major at Georgetown. She comes from a loving and slightly dysfunctional family. Anna wrote her first story at age three, when she dictated a novella to her mother. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Anna goes to the Zooâ&#x20AC;? has yet to be published, as this still up-and-coming writer is still refining her body of work. Anna is an avid dog-lover and blog-reader. Anna enjoys sleeping and watching Criminal Minds, just not at the same time.

ROLLBACK

“Let’s each pick something for the other person to try on.” My legs feel light and my hands are tingling. Loona and I are standing in the underwear section of Wal-Mart. I start to sweat because I’m afraid Loona will think that’s a dumb idea. I pretend to scratch my shoulder and wander my hand into my armpit. It’s soaked. The rest of me feels cold, though. I bring my damp hand to my face and sniff it, Daisy Breeze and sour salt. Loona gives me a look. I wipe my nose and sniff. “Allergies,” I whine, coughing once for good measure. She looks at me like she always does when she’s figured out that I’ve done something embarrassing. Loona smiles. “That’s a great idea, Lacie.” I grin, relieved, and look down at the linoleum of the intimates aisle. I’m standing on a gray square and Loona is over on a blue one, near the fancy bras with bows between the cups and lace that lets your skin peek out when you lie back and lift your arms up. She grabs a lacy purple push-up. “Look,” she waves the bra in my face. The purple cups are padded and translucent. “It’s so hot,” Loona says, “With your skin, you could totally pull it off.” I blush and kneel down, sinking my face into the rack of Hane’s Moulin Rouge Edition panties.

I’ve always fantasized about doing something like this with Loona. Whenever we have sleepovers, I always sort of hope we’ll end up braiding each other’s hair in our underwear and drifting off in the same bed. Usually we watch Law and Order all night, and Loona falls asleep on her dad’s recliner. My hand falls on a simple pair of black underwear. They’re small but elegant. I feel the panties between my thumb and fingers and suddenly I’m wondering what the skin on Loona’s legs feels like, and how these small black stretches of cloth would wrap around her. Loona started shaving last year; I remember her mom bought her the peach Ladies’ Choice shaving cream. I wonder if Loona used it this morning in the shower. “Whatcha got there, Lacie?” Loona leans over the Hanes display, pursing her lips in a way that makes me wonder if she can read my mind sometimes. “Hot!” Loona says, “I’m so down to try those. You ready?” She offers me her hand, pulling me up in a whirl of blue rollback signs and shiny underwear. I’m dizzy as Loona starts to lead me to the dressing rooms. We have to walk through the proper ladies’ section to get there, and I hug the black panties to my chest. I feel like a college girl or a cheerleader, someone who Loona would want to be holding hands with and running through the teachers’ jumpers aisle with,

I don’t want to miss any of this. I hand Loona the panties. like someone who she’d want to have a secret with. “You first.” Loona shoves me up to the counter at the dressing room entrance. The attendant is wearing a blue shirt and her nametag says “Fayth.” She looks up from her celebrity magazine and smiles, waving us back into the hallway of rooms. I’m relieved she didn’t count our hangers and exchange them for little plastic number 1’s. The East Grace Wal-Mart has had a problem with teenage shoplifting recently. Fayth must think Loona and I are mature. We look down the corridor. Both sides are lined with stalls and there’s a three-way mirror at the end of the hall. In front of the mirror is a blue carpet platform, like the kind you stand on to try on a wedding gown or a prom dress: something beautiful that fits better when you’re a couple inches off the ground. My aunt Sissy told me I’ll be allowed to wear heels once I start senior high school. Being short, I can’t wait. Loona is still holding onto me. Her hand has creeped up to my wrist. Her fingers are drumming on the top of my forearm. Her long nails are coral red. There’s only one chip in the polish, I notice, at the base of Loona’s thumbnail. She reaches out her other hand and pushes open the door of the closest dressing stall. She fiddles with the doorknob.

“Lock’s broken,” says Loona. She pulls me down to the end of the row, near the big mirror. I turn back and stick my head down to look under the other stalls. “There’s no one else back here, Loona,” I tell her, though I’m not sure why. “Perfect,” Loona says, “let’s take a big one.” We step into a wheelchair-sized dressing room and Loona clicks the lock shut. “Time to trade.” She says. I’m getting dizzy again. I take a deep breath and sit on the edge of the little dressing room bench. I don’t want to miss any of this. I hand Loona the panties. “Aw, why are your hands shaking, Lacie?” Loona touches my shoulder sweetly and starts to unbuckle her jeans. She leans on me to balance as she slides them off. “Wait,” Loona says, “you’ve got to do it with me” I start to pull off my t-shirt. Underneath is one of Sissy’s old sports bras. Loona doesn’t seem to notice. “Ready?” Loona says. She takes the bra off the hanger and unclasps it in the back, handing it to me. Loona slides off her regular white panties. I don’t bother to ask her whether we’re even allowed to try on the underwear against bare skin. She unhooks the black underwear from the hanger and stands on one foot, sliding the other into

the soft black panties. Loona switches feet and starts to slide her other foot in and pull them up. She stumbles forward into my lap. I grab the top of her back thighs and steady her. She makes a nervous face and giggles. “Thanks,” Loona says quietly. My hands slide up to her hips and on top of the black fabric. I want to tell her that they look great. Loona looks at me for a moment and then steps back, leaning on the door of the dressing room. I hold my hands together. “Your turn,” she says smiling. I smile back, realizing what has happened. I slide the elastic bra top off and turn my back to Loona. I loop the purple lace cups around my chest. I decide to close the clasps by myself. “Hot,” Loona says, “just like I predicted.” My heart thumps under the purple pads, but I don’t blush this time. I trace the purple lace to a small black bow between where the cups meet. This would look better with cleavage, I think sadly. Loona is still leaning on the plastic door of the dressing stall. She shifts her weight and the whole wall of fitting rooms creaks. I hear Fayth talking to some customers, and two pairs of women’s feet step into stalls across from ours. Loona picks up her jeans and starts to step into them.

“Wait,” I say. “Come on Lacie,” Loona says, “I’m keeping these as a souvenir.” She grins mischievously, “Don’t tell me they don’t look great on me.” I nod and unclasp the purple bra. I slide back into Sissy’s bra and my t-shirt, trying to symmetrically align the tiny purple buckles on the hanger. Loona grabs my shoulder. “You gonna wait until you can fill that in a little?” She nods at the purple bra and purses her lips. “We should go.” Loona says and opens the door. One of the new women is standing on the platform, modeling a long green dress. Her friend admires the way the fabric falls as she twirls. Loona takes my hand. “Did everything work out for y’all?” Fayth asks, not looking up from her magazine. Loona grabs the purple bra and sticks it onto the misfit rack. “Have a blessed day,” Fayth calls after us. We walk back through the proper ladies’ section, Loona points and giggles at the shapeless dresses and jumpers our teachers wear to school. “The opposite of hot,” Loona declares, shaking her head. I nod, looking at a navy blue jumper with orange cats flanking the hem.

“We should go,” Loona says, “You should sleep over tonight.” I smile and nod again. “I can braid your hair,” I offer. “Sure,” Loona says grabbing my hand. Her coral nails feel sharp on my wrist this time. “Thanks, Lacie.”

Jacquelyn Stolos is a senior at Georgetown University where she studies English, ultimate frisbee, and pictures of cats on the internet. During her childhood in Derry, New Hampshire, Jacquelyn developed a passion for all things small and cute, which she has continued to cultivate in her tiny basement bedroom in Washington, DC. According to Maureen McCarthy, an award-winning Jacquelyn Stolos scholar, â&#x20AC;&#x153;it is her hours spent typing in her dark, cold and occasionally flooded basement that allow such creativity to flow into her pages. The higher the winds, the more complex are her characters and the more engaging is her dialogue.â&#x20AC;? Jacquelyn is flattered, though not sure that she agrees. After graduation, Jacquelyn plans to move somewhere smaller, expand her knowledge of internet cats, and write.

EATING SOMEWHERE ELSE

“What did you mean the other night? When you said that thing about Madeleine’s hair?” he asked. “Nothing. Just forget it. I shouldn’t drink so much.” He couldn’t see her lips move. She stood directly in front of him but was just a silhouette against the October sun. Greg leaned against a granite pillar. The two friends waited beneath the wrought iron gates of the university for a cab. Greg wished he’d thought to take Louise to M street or to Wisconsin Avenue. Cabs came just as frequently to the gates, but he wanted to show her the townhouses once more. The way they rose four proud stories above the cobblestone streets had pulled his hungry allegiance from Hamilton, New Hampshire to this old, stately place. He wanted her to see, to understand. “When will I see you again? You’re coming home for Thanksgiving, right?” Louise asked. “Why didn’t you like Madeleine? She’s perfect. There’s nothing wrong with her hair.” Louise shifted to the left. The sun was not directly behind her anymore and Greg studied her clothes, dark and tight. Greg had loved this back home but now, standing at Georgetown’s front gates, he was embarrassed of the way she dressed

like he’d been embarrassed of how loudly she’d laughed and flirted the night before. He thought of how Madeleine wore her cashmere with the same ease that you’d toss a quilt over a couch. A taxi stopped at the corner. Greg began to lift his hand, but a woman with a quick leather briefcase stepped off the sidewalk and slid into the backseat. Louise dragged her duffle closer with her foot. “I think Madeleine has great hair,” she said. “You have a really pretty girlfriend. Everyone is pretty here.” “She’s not my girlfriend yet. I haven’t asked.” Greg looked down to his hands then back up at Louise’s face. The familiarity of it warmed him. “You don’t like her.” “I didn’t say that.” Louise shifted to the right and he lost all her details again. She was a smudge of dark as sun filtered through her hair and curled around her body. He became homesick for the curve of her nose and the way you could always see a little bit of her teeth, even when she thought her mouth was closed. She was right—people here were pretty. They were the type of pretty that Greg craved to be surrounded by in the same way

Everyone is pretty here. that he craved perfect grades and types of cheese his mother had never heard of. “I don’t care if you don’t like her. I do.” He watched her turn her head left to right then right to left, scanning for a cab. She moved like home. Another taxi rounded the corner. Greg lifted his hand, but it didn’t stop. “Why don’t you like her? I want you to like her. I think I’ll ask her to be my girlfriend today.” “When do you get home for Thanksgiving? I booked my flight for the Tuesday night before. I want to have everyone over.” The idea of home flashed through him. Though in his mind he knew this place wasn’t permanent, he had forgotten that he would leave. Greg reached up and pulled at his hair. He wasn’t hungry, and he wondered why his stomach felt so tight and empty. “Stop it,” Greg said. “Stop judging her. She’s not a bad person just because her family has more money than yours.” Louise shifted to the left and the sun was a glowing ball, resting on her shoulder. “I’m not judging her. And our families have the same kind of money.”

He could see her details again. They didn’t fill him the way he needed. Greg turned from Louise, looking back towards campus. He wanted her to follow his gaze up the towers of Healy Hall; up to the way that their height and grandeur filled him with something bursting while magnifying some pitted hunger at the same time. He wanted her to understand, to help him understand. He looked back to her and the setting sun blinded him. If Louise couldn’t, he wasn’t sure who could. “I’m sorry. Forget I ever said anything,” Louise said. “I shouldn’t drink so much. Her hair is fine. It’s perfect.” “We’re in college. We’re supposed to drink.” Greg ran his right forefinger along the creases in his left palm. “I haven’t booked for Thanksgiving yet.” “The rich girls at WashU have perfect hair, too. Rich people just have better hair than us. It’s biological, I think,” Louise said. Greg reached up to his own head and patted down his red curls. He’d been wearing them shorter since he’d come here. “I bet it’s because rich men win beautiful women with all their money,” Louise said. “I bet they breed children with perfect hair and send them to good schools with us nerds.”

A taxi wobbled over the cobblestoned street towards Greg and Louise. Greg waved to it and it stopped. He put her duffle into the trunk of the cab and opened the door. The friends looked past each other. “It was great to see you in your new element,” Louise said. “Now I know where to picture you when I call.” “It was great to see you. I hope you had fun.” Louise lifted her chin to look up the stone towers of Healy Hall. She turned back towards Greg as she lowered herself into the cab. “I’ll see you at home in November.” Greg stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth as the cab drove away. Greg was not yet sure if he was supposed to knock or walk right in. He compromised, turning the handle with his left hand and pushing slowly while knocking with his right. Madeleine was at her desk, tilting the chair onto its back legs and chewing on a pen-cap. “Did Louise get off alright?” she asked. “She’s in a cab.” Madeleine remained tilting in her chair. Greg did not know if he should sit on her

bed without her so he stood in the center of the room. He put his hands in his pocket then took them back out again. “I wish I could have said goodbye.” Greg was glad Madeleine faced her books as she said this. He was worried she wouldn’t be beautiful lying. He traced the lines on his palm. Outside, the Healy clock chimed. Seven o’clock. Madeleine reached her arms over her head and yawned. “I’m too tired for dinner,” she said. She stood and moved to the bed. Greg followed, pulling off his shoes like she’d taught him to and curling his body next to hers. The heat of another person nearly filled him, but there was still something empty and twisting in his stomach so he kissed the lobe of her ear. Then he kissed her neck and her jawbone and her cheek and her nose. The kisses were soft, juiceless pecks, just how she liked, but when he tried to move down from her nose to her lips she turned her head towards the wall. “Is something wrong?” Greg asked. He became conscious of his right hand. It had snuck onto her stomach and his smallest finger had inched himself beneath the top of

her jeans. He wondered if removing it now would be too obvious. “Nothing,” Madeleine said. She turned onto her side and Greg’s hand slipped off. Greg studied her back, wondering what she wanted. He kissed the tiny hairs on her neck and she stiffened. “Who is Louise, anyways?”’ Greg relaxed. This he could fix. “I’m sorry. I should have explained better before she came. We’ve never had anything. We’ve always just been friends. Louise is my friend.” Greg’s hand hovered above Madeleine’s hip for a moment then he thought better. He sat up. Maybe this could be the time to ask. “I’m not interested in anyone besides you,” he said. Greg waited, watching for signs of affection in the solid cashmere of her back. “I know she’s your friend. That’s why I’m confused,” Madeleine said. Greg reached both hands to his head and pulled at his hair. He was startled by its shortness. Without a tangle of red curls to run his hands through, Greg did not know how to figure things out.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re confused about. She’s my friend and she came to visit.” “She’s just not what I expected.” Greg’s hands dampened. He wanted to apologize, covering her face and neck with those kisses that she liked. He knew she was talking about the loudness and the flirting and the tight clothes. He could apologize for that. He worried that she was talking about the curve of her nose, the way you could always see a bit of her teeth, the way she moved like New Hampshire. He did not know how to apologize for those. Instead, he looked towards the window. The sun had set since he’d come inside. “I don’t know,” he said. “She’s always been the weird one. I don’t even know why she thinks I like her.” Greg watched Madeleine’s shoulders soften. He’d done it. She melted onto her back and rolled her face into the crook of his neck. “Yeah,” she said. “She’s pretty weird.” Madeleine giggled soft, rolling bubbles that vibrated through Greg’s neck into his spine. He felt the muscles in his shoulders tense as guilt pulsed through him in quiet waves. He shrugged his shoulders and took a deep, rattling breath. Louise couldn’t hear them, he told himself. She was safe.

She was interesting. It was interesting Greg slipped his hands beneath Madeleine’s sweater and pulled it over her head. He gripped the sweater with both hands for a moment, then pushed it over the edge of the bed. Though he knew that it fell with a plunk then pooled in a heap on the floor, he imagined it floating slowly down like a feather, swishing from right to left; left to right, then neatly folding itself on the carpet.

The back wall of the Leo O’Donovan Dining Hall was three stories of glass. After sunset it shined black. Kate’s freckled arm was a bright toothpick against it as she waved them over. Greg had piled his plate with spaghetti, topping it with as many meatballs as he could fit. He struggled to balance these meatballs as he followed Madeleine to the table. Harrison sat to Kate’s left, pushing dry chicken and hard-boiled eggs around his plate. Paul was on Harrison’s left with a pile of wilted broccoli. Greg chose the chair opposite Harrison. Madeleine sat down next to him. Away from the tint of the warming bulbs, the meatballs looked hard and grey.

He hoped Louise was in a center seat or on the aisle. She hated the window—heights made her soul all jumpy, she’d told him once. That twisting emptiness throbbed up to his throat and Greg wanted to jump up and run to the airport, to bang on doors and shout at uniformed people until he could somehow get to her and tell her that he didn’t mean it. Instead, he swallowed.

“Where’s your friend?” Paul asked.

Greg gathered Madeleine’s hair in a loose fist. He didn’t run his fingers through it. He only held it for a moment, then he placed it back down on her pillow. He buried his face in the pillow and inhaled.

“She left about an hour ago.” Greg said. He pretended not to hear the mocking in Greg’s voice. Another wave of guilt pulsed through him. He hoped she wasn’t in a window seat. He swallowed hard.

“I think Kate and some people are in the dining hall,” Madeleine said. “Want to go eat?”

“She was interesting. It was interesting to meet your friend from home,” said Kate. She lifted her eyes at Madeleine, who concentrated hard on her plate. Greg looked from one girl to the other. Kate wore something gauzy and shapeless and expensive. It swirled around her in a way that make it impossible to remember her ever wearing anything else, like it was just

Greg wondered if Madeleine had been lying when she’d said she wasn’t hungry or if she was lying right then. He squeezed his eyes closed, not wanting to see, then stood to find his shoes.

another layer of her body. Madeleine was still. “I liked her,” said Paul, looking sideways at Harrison, who reddened. “I think Harrison liked her, too.” Everyone laughed. Greg pretended just to hear the words that Paul said, not the way he said them. He knew if he heard that he’d have to defend her, and doing that in front of Madeleine would ruin everything.

All of the spaghetti was gone and Greg was still hungry. Greg tried to use the side of his fork to cut a meatball in two and it shot out from underneath, rolling off the table and onto the floor. He realized that if he was going to eat them, he’d have to eat them whole.

Greg twirled the spaghetti from beneath the meatballs, wondering how long he steal out from under them before he would be forced to decide to eat them or wrap them in a napkin. They had looked so good beneath the warming bulb.

“Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me,” Kate said. Greg sucked on a whole meatball. It softened and he swallowed it. “My dad wants to meet everyone,” Kate said. “He said he’ll fly us all out to our timeshare in Bermuda that weekend.”

It wouldn’t hurt to light all of Leo’s with tinted bulbs, he thought. Eating here could be more pleasant if the illusion was never broken.

“Oh that’s a nice quick flight,” said Madeleine. “Bermuda’s so great for short trips.” Greg noticed how the dining hall lights, three stories up, shined in her hair. He touched his own head, groping for his missing curls

Beside him, Madeleine cleared her throat, but didn’t speak. Though they were not touching, Greg felt her harden. He hoped she didn’t have much homework. If she didn’t have to go to the library they cold go back to her room. He could soften her with private insults to home and then take off that cashmere again. He hoped Louise wasn’t in a window seat. He wished he’d asked her where she’d be sitting before she’d left. Just to know.

“Hey. When are you guys leaving for Thanksgiving?” Greg asked. “That Tuesday night? Or Wednesday morning?

Greg stabbed at another meatball. “Would we all leave from home that Friday after Thanksgiving?” He asked. “Oh no, flying together Tuesday night from here all would be much easier,” said Kate. Greg turned towards Madeleine. She was happy now, and when she was happy her

skin glowed all golden and perfect. He could go there, he thought, and they would be somewhere warm and beautiful together where she would glow warm and beautiful too. Louise would be in the air by now, he thought. She wasn’t here anymore. She wouldn’t know. Greg thought of Thanksgiving dinner in Hamilton. It had been the same stories and people and laughter and fights for his entire life, and it would be the same this year, too. He didn’t need [to] be there to know what was happening. He could close his eyes and feel Thanksgiving in Hamilton whenever he wanted. Of course, his mother’s heart would be broken, but no one can ever get anywhere without breaking his mother’s heart a few times, he told himself. Greg thought about Thanksgiving dinner in Bermuda. There would probably be turkey and mashed potatoes just like at home. The real difference, he told himself, was that he wouldn’t wear a sweater. Sweaters aren’t important he told himself. Especially the ones woven from cheap, artificial yarn. He leaned back in his chair and thought of how, even bursting with turkey and rolls and squash and cider, for eighteen years he’d felt that twisting hunger after the meal. He looked at Madeleine, her hair glistening like her cashmere, and decided that Thanksgiving dinner in Bermuda might be

more filling. He ate the last meatball. It was dry and hard but he imagined that it tasted how it had looked beneath the tint of the warming bulb and it was almost delicious. “I’m in,” he said. He put his arm around Madeleine and decided that he would ask her to be his girlfriend tonight. Maybe then she’d let him kiss her beneath her expensive clothes and that tight emptiness wouldn’t ache this night as he fell asleep like it did every night as he stared up to the springs of the top bunk trying not to think of how the air in Hamilton is sweet with the smell of overripe apples in October. “Did any of you bring your clubs to school?” Kate asked. “My dad is strict about golfing when we’re in Bermuda. No isn’t an option.” Everyone laughed. “I can probably get mine shipped,” said Paul. Beneath the table, Greg traced the lines in his hands, imagining what it felt like to hold a club.

Alex Sanchez Born and raised in suburban Long Beach, Calif., Alex Sanchez is a senior at Georgetown University, from where he will graduate in May with a major in English and a minor in Italian. He held an assistant editorial position with the university newspaper â&#x20AC;&#x201D; The Hoya â&#x20AC;&#x201D; for the past two years, and he continues to contribute articles as a staff writer. After graduation, he hopes to go on to pursue a career in journalism.

UNTITLED

Oliver had already been waiting on the platform for some time when the announcement came on the loudspeakers. A muffled voice rumbled something incomprehensible, though Oliver was by then familiar enough with the day-to-day of the Underground — and of the Earl’s Court station in particular — to understand what it meant. The voice was announcing a delay. After the message had ended, each of the station’s electronic marquees broadcasted the hold-up in bright, pixelated letters, and everyone on the platform (save Oliver) groaned in unison. A few of the travelers cursed audibly — some under their breath — throwing their hands up in the air, while others immediately pulled out their pagers and phones to inform some faraway person of their rotten luck. Oliver, however, was more than delighted at the prospect of spending an extra fifteen minutes at the station — he had always held a certain fondness for the Underground that was often difficult for him to articulate and even more difficult, he imagined, for the jaded London commuters to understand. He settled back against an uncomfortably stiff wooden bench that looked out upon a concrete wall and a grey gully of train tracks and rubbish. Large IKEA advertisements were hung along the concrete like

enormous paintings in art museum, and above him, two rows of fluorescent light fixtures tossed a miserly bit of light onto the platform which — at this time of night — seemed somehow darker and more bleak than usual. Beside him sat a young French couple that smelled of perfume and liquor busily making out on top of each other, either not noticing or not caring that they had attracted a small audience of voyeurs. A large map of the Underground was laid out on one side of the directory in front of him, and Oliver distracted himself from this ribald spectacle by studying it with an intent almost tourist-like fascination. He knew the map already almost by memory. It was altogether a complex patchwork of interweaving colored lines, sloping varyingly from left-to-right, up-and-down and across. Riding the tube was for Oliver like casting one’s lot in an enormous game of chance, one in which he always found himself shoved up against all types of queer people. It was a map of near-infinite possibilities, one in which the wealthiest man in Kensington was only seven stops away from the crime-ridden streets of Whitechapel. Oliver glanced around the platform. He knew the social climate of his own neighborhood’s station well: there were the young posh girls with straight hair and

pearls; their boyfriends; and the sofa-like old couples with their bowlers, trenches and frowns. Now, there were also now mixed about them teenagers on their way to paint the city red, urban professionals heading off to sterile, expensive bars and Oliver, not wholly sure where he was going to end up. He turned his gaze back to the map of the Underground, deciding — as the headlights of the train rolled slowly into view — that he should probably make up his mind relatively soon. Queen Victoria’s occupied the bottom floor of what had once been an old single-family house in Vauxhall. It had been renovated sometime in the early eighties, whereupon it had been transfigured from a bygone of pre-war English architecture into a dive bar with a sordid reputation. Just off of Old Compton Street, it stood at the end of an alleyway so narrow that it had been closed to car traffic. The alley also lacked a proper street sign, though the locals often chidingly referred to it as “Cocks Row” for the slew of gay bars and clubs it contained. This act of turning off the neighborhood’s main thoroughfare and down that dark and narrow stretch of road was always accompanied by a jab of both pride and shame when done in the sight of passersby. There was also the sense that one was being silently judged, and as Oliver rounded the

It gave the impression of some where that was in-transistion corner caught in the failing glow of the streetlamps, he kept his head turned down toward the pavement, lest he catch the reprobating stare of some local late-night shopper. He had come here often before with his sister, Effie, and he was quite taken aback to find that Cocks Row was still haunted by the memory of her and the tip-tapping of her stiletto heels. The first time had been nearly six months ago, after she had discovered that her bedroom window had somehow become disconnected from their house’s alarm system. This precipitated several months of sneaking out of their house after their parents had gone to sleep, and it had also as a consequence led to Oliver’s own sexual, and homosexual, awakening. After he had come out to her, Effie had taken it upon herself to guide him through this strange and un-guessable world, an adventure to the both of them. She was always overjoyed at the opportunity to follow her brother along on his gay escapades through London, and she liked to think of herself as a de facto gay man as well as something of an expert on them. Just as it had those many months ago, the alleyway smelled of beer, piss and whatever perfume happened to be en vogue. This was the year of “Le Male,” a synthetic musky floral that had, in a

matter of weeks, permeated every gay bar and club in London. The scent of it was unmistakable. One was constantly inhaling it on the Underground, at restaurants and locker rooms — it was the closest thing the community had to a calling card. Oliver had remembered seeing an advertisement for it sometime ago on Oxford Street. An enormous billboard depicted an attractive shirtless man in a sailor hat, while the tiny blue-and-green bottle stood unimpressively down in the corner almost like an afterthought. Oliver sucked down his second Benson & Hedges silver, leaning against a tall façade of bluish-grey London brick beside the bar. Across from him, a family of vermin sported along the gutter. This little lost entanglement of side streets was hauntingly quiet at this hour — the dowdy noises of Cocks Row were all more-or-less confined to whichever bar or club had produced them, so that one walking past heard only the occasional drunken shout or thump of dance music as a door was being opened or shut somewhere far-off. Drivers, too, took care to avoid this area of London, much of which had over the years been given over to the somnolent activities of drug dealing and prostitution. There was a perennial market for both in Vauxhall.

Oliver inhaled the last few drags of his cigarette and tossed the butt somewhere along the alleyway. Shouldering open the heavy door, he felt immediately like something of an intruder in his shirtsleeves and wing-tipped brogues, a sore thumb among the coterie of faded jeans and t-shirts. He hadn’t been entirely sure where he was going to end up when he had left home that night, and he thought that dressing up a bit smarter than usual had seemed a safe bet. Oliver had always secretly enjoyed the comfort of dressing up, the reassuring right-ness of it and the subtle confidence it gave him. Although, here, at Queen Victoria’s on a Tuesday night, the discrepancy between himself and everyone else was a bit off-putting.

a dishrag and taking great care to clean around a fat, balding man who sat on a barstool, putting away a heaping platter of fish and chips. He lent to the already questionable atmosphere of the place the arid stink of grease and vinegar. At a large round table by the entrance sat a group of young boys — all seemingly in their early twenties — ringed around a pair of nearly-empty pitchers and a large basket of chips and onion rings. One of them, a freckly boy with ruddy hair and an ascot cap, glanced up from his pint glass as Oliver walked by, caught his eye and flashed him a lopsided grin besmirched with tartar sauce. Oliver nodded politely back as he made his way to the bar counter.

The bar was unsatisfactorily furnished for a place that claimed to have been in business for nearly ten years, and it gave the impression of somewhere that was in-transition. A few large cushioned booths were mounted along the far side wall, while smaller tables set for only two or four were strewn about the perimeter. Protruding from the wall across from him was an impressive bar — the obvious focal point and pride of the place — that looked to him like an enormous church organ made of brightly colored glass bottles of sundry shapes and sizes. A very black bartender stood behind the bar, wiping down the countertop with

Oliver made himself comfortable at a barstool two seats away from the fat man, and he did his best to look horribly despondent. He had seen in films that this was the best way to get the bartender to ask you about your troubles and buy you a drink, though the bartender refused to look up from the countertop. He had either not noticed him, or Oliver hadn’t been trying hard enough. “Negroni!” he finally called out as the bartender put away the dishrag and cleaning solvent. Oliver had never been much of a drinker, and truthfully, he wasn’t even entirely sure what a Negroni was. However, he had seen Effie order them

on more than one occasion, and she always seemed to enjoy herself. The bartender pulled out a glass from somewhere beneath the bar and began mixing something together. The fat man beside Oliver began sucking his fingers and picking the backs of his teeth with his fingernails. He almost wished for the French couple again. The Negroni turned out to be a bloody-red cocktail that smelled of gin and something dreadful, and it came in an unfortunately tall glass. Even so, Oliver threw the bartender a fiver and took a long sip of his drink as a sign of gratitude. It was strong, almost repellently so, and carried with it a dull burn as it settled deep within Oliver’s chest. He had thought five pounds was an awfully lot of money to spend on a drink, and he was glad that he was getting his money’s worth of alcohol, if nothing else. Oliver swiveled around on his barstool, taking a moment to adjust himself to the social atmosphere of the place. He glanced around the room purposelessly as one does when — after the initial excitement of his arrival has faded — he is left with the queasy realization that he doesn’t actually know anyone in it. An older couple (one handsome, the other far out of his league) sashayed across the room and took a seat by the window. A sloshing young Arab woman burst through the door and leapt into the

arms of someone seated by the door. The group of young boys was shouting at one another across the table, refreshing empty pitchers and forcefully waving around chips as they spoke. The climate of Queen Victoria’s had become much more tame than he had remembered it. The last time he had been here with Effie — nearly three weeks ago — the two of them had spent hours dancing together among the crowd of drunken bar-hoppers, indulging themselves on countless Negronis, Cape Codders and cigarettes. The tables and chairs had all been shoved up against the walls to make room for a dance floor which had been jam-packed with men and women all bumping and grinding against each other as some trashy pop song roared out through a pair of wall-mounted speakers. At the insistence of his sister and perhaps one too many Cape Codders, Oliver had even made out with someone, some guy Effie had found for him in line for the bathroom. She had also taken it upon herself to stand in as his wingman, and — Oliver had to admit — she was a pretty good one, at that. Oliver felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see the red-headed boy standing in front of him, hands stuffed into a tight windbreaker and a rolled cigarette dangling flaccidly from his lips. “Ey!” he

said. The cigarette bobbed up and down as he spoke. “I fink I sah you ousside earlier. You wouldn’t ‘appen to ‘ave a a light on ya, wuddya, mate?” The boy spoke in a sloshing, Cockney accent made all the more abstruse by the lumbering slur of his drunkenness. There were no Cockney boys in Oliver’s neighborhood, and he found this otherworldly, almost-exotic manner of speech incredibly sexy even if he had to concentrate a bit harder to understand what he was saying. The boy was handsome enough, in a peculiar sort of way, and Oliver, carried along by his tipsy affability and the prospect of making conversation, decided to go along with it. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said as he extracted a tiny, yellow Bic lighter from his breast pocket. The boy smiled the same crooked grin as before, and his cigarette trembled suggestively like a beckoning finger. “Cool. Fancy comin’ ousside for a smoke?” Oliver pretended to mull this over for a protracted moment of two before finally giving in. He drained the rest of his Negroni and casually hopped down from his barstool, taking a second to steady himself on the countertop. Suddenly, he realized why Effie was so fond of this drink

— already the room was beginning to take on a muddled fog. “Alright. Let’s go, then.” He followed the boy out of the bar and into the chilling night air of Cocks Row where another, larger boy was sitting on a small series of steps blowing warm air into his hands. An unrolled cigarette lay open on his lap. “Right. I’m ‘Arry, by the way,” said the redheaded one, jabbing himself in the sternum with his thumb. He nodded over to the boy on the steps. “An’ this ‘ere is me boyfrien’, Georgie.” Oliver took in a strained breath of disappointment at hearing the word “boyfriend,” but he nonetheless smiled and nodded back kindly. George lifted up two fingers in a careless “hello,” as though the two of them had just distracted him from this all-important project of rolling up a cigarette. Oliver noticed — in the midst of a passing breeze — that they both stank of “Le Male.” “It’s very nice to meet you both,” he said, unsure as to how he was meant to conduct himself as the third wheel in this conversation. “I’m Oliver.” “Cool,” said Harry, now ostensibly selfsatisfied at having completed this first round of social niceties. “So, we gonna smoke or sit ‘round ‘ere like a bunch of birds at a quilting convention?”

I like to ride the tube on occasion. George chuckled to himself, and Oliver — reminded why he had been asked outside in the first place — produced the yellow lighter and lit himself another cigarette before passing the lighter on to Harry.

see where it goes. Or else I’ll get off at some random stop, some place I’ve never been to before and just go exploring. Find a new place, meet some new people. It’s like a game, like an adventure, really, you know?”

“So, where ya from mate? Ya sound like a bit uvva twat.”

“No … not really,” said George, who looked up at his boyfriend to see whether or not he had understood.

Oliver sniggered affectedly to show that he hadn’t taken offense. “Well … I’m from Chelsea Harbor, actually. And I — ” “Chehlsee ‘Arbah! Well, I’ll say yer a fahr ways away from home, ain’t ya?” “I suppose I am.” “What brings you down to these parts?” said George, who suddenly seemed to remember that he was part of a conversation. He placed a particular emphasis to “these parts” as though to suggest that Vauxhall and Cocks Row were both somehow beneath a Chelsea boy. “I’m … well, I’m not sure, really.” Oliver took a long drag from his cigarette and threw a spray of ash upon the cobblestones. His mouth still tasted regrettably like Negroni, and he protracted a second inhale before continuing. “I guess … I mean, I like to ride the tube on occasion. Sometimes I’ll set off with somewhere in mind — school, or one of my mate’s houses or something — but other times … other times, I’ll ride it just to

Harry shrugged. “Nevah really like the tube, meeself. Reckon it’s a bit too grimy. Georgie and I ride our bikes most places, don’t we, Georgie?” George nodded in agreement. “I dunno,” said Oliver. “I mean … I haven’t seen my sister in a while. She left for uni a couple weeks ago — she’s in the states now. New York, actually. We used to be really close, and we would come down to Cocks Row quite a lot. Really, most weekends. I think she really liked it down here for some reason. She was really supportive when I first came out. My parents weren’t really too keen on the whole idea of having a gay son and all. And this one time at dinner, she told them — ” Oliver heard the heavy door of Queen Victoria’s swing open behind him, and the noise of a drunken crowd broke out into the alleyway. A rabble of young boys all stumbled out of the bar, shouting and singing. “Hey!” one of them called out.

“Harry! George! Let’s go! Rail drinks for a pound fifty at The Armory until midnight.” George stood up, and Harry sucked down the last few drags of his cigarette before tossing the butt into the doorway beside him. He put a hand on Oliver’s shoulder as George ran along with the crowd. “Sorry, gotta go. But it was nice meetin’ ya, Otto.” He turned and ran to catch up with the group. Oliver finished his cigarette alone, deciding whether or not to turn back or follow them into The Armory. Although Oliver had often suggested that he and Effie check out the place, he had never actually been inside. Effie always seemed to prefer the atmosphere of Queen Victoria’s, at once charmingly quaint and sleazy. He stomped the butt of his cigarette against the ground, and pulled open the heavy door of Queen Victoria’s where he spent the next hour or so conversing with the fat man next at the bar while nursing another Negroni.

Maciej Kietlinski was born in the Bronx of New York in 1992. Contrary to popular opinion he was not born with a pen in hand, as pens are hard to find in the womb. At three months old, he was shipped to Elk, Poland, and raised in a hovel on the foresty Russian border. At age 8, upon his family learning that he did indeed have a dual citizenship and therefore had access to American education system, he moved to New Jersey. This is about the time when he learned English. Somehow he ended up in Georgetown University, where he studies English and Psychology. His interest in the human psyche, specifically neurological afflictions, is reflected in his writing, which has been labeled on numerous occasions as magical realism, though Maciej prefers to call it psychological realism. His favorite animal is the Northern Hairy-Nosed Wombat. He spends his free time writing, boxing, and climbing tall things. Luckily, Maciej has not been published or received any literary recognition.

SIGNATURES

My first real visitor arrives on a Saturday. His name is Robert Bishop and he signs my cast with a plain black sharpie, size forty font in what looks like wingdings. He creeps around the hospital room, opening arbitrary shelves and examining the contents while nodding slowly to himself. We talk about a party he’s hosting that night, and how many biddies he’s not gonna be able to bang without a wingman. “So many biddies,” he says, laughing, smiling, always kidding but always sort of serious. I consider for a moment, for the second or third time now, that Robert is either the reincarnation of Loki or Johnny Bravo. “So many goddamn biddies.” “Why are you throwing a house party on the only weekend I happened to be in the hospital?” My question is ignored. “So many biddies,” He repeats, this time with wide eyes but an expressionless face in his trying to be serious tone. Then, like a doctor trying to break sad news, he rests his hand on my foot and leans in close, whispering “So many biddies.” I get a bit tense because his hand is directly over embarrassing secret number 8. Robert notices my glimmer of emotional response and follows it down to the leg cast only to ask the one thing I was dreading, “Who’s Johansson?”

The first names I wrote on my own cast weren’t even real people. Thinking of names was a delicate balance between the believability of the name and the possibility of someone investigating it. In a brief moment of lucidity I had been considered crossing out number 8, weighing the questionability of the name against the oddness of having a crossed-out name on the cast. I reprimanded myself for ever considering the name Johansonn. Little white lies stacking on one another like Jenga bricks, each one held up by the one before. Robert slides out a middle piece but the tower doesn’t topple. “Kid from school,” I say, and consider the possibility of Rob pulling out another brick by asking me more about him. But I’ve braced myself mentally, logically. All of a sudden, Johansson exists. He’s rather short for his age and this combined with an awkwardly dark moustache gives him some needed character. He finds both firework and laser light shows to be fascinating. He smokes cigarettes but knows he needs to quit. His eyes narrow. “He signed it with his last name?” The tower heaves and lurches under the stress of this scrutiny. “Yes.” I answer, and attempt to change the subject, “And so did Monica.”

After a while I started to write down the names of people I was sure weren’t gonna come but I wish came anyway. Robert might have come to this conclusion on his own. The best way to make Robert introverted is to challenge his proficiency in obtaining women. Robert looks at the purple cursive signature at the end of my finger and nods slowly. I can almost hear the gears in his head whirling about the possibility of someone other than him interacting with the female gender. “Your Monica?” He checks. “Yeah.” “Oh, nice.” Its twenty seven hours later. Oliver Neir, who’s rather tall when he isn’t halfway between supine and sitting, is sprawled in an armchair consisting of two firm cushions and some heavy wooden frame. Ménez Cortez sits beside him in an identical chair, content to stare blankly across the room and out the window. Its fifteen minutes into a visit and all conversation topics have been exhausted, including how Julia Viola, an acquaintance, had took off her top and danced on a table, how Robert Bishop, the host of that night’s shenanigans, found vomit under his divan the morning after the party ended, and how I narrowly avoided

death. Exhausted conversation topics. No one wants to hear the same story twice. I glance away from the wall mounted television, babbling on about the growing threat of an unkempt wild moose population. “Where are you guys?” I ask. “I’m thinking about Monday,” Says Ménez, “But I’m also considering that whole Buddhist thing, so I’m really trying to do it from a perspective of what I need to be doing right now rather than dwelling in the future.” She looks over at Oliver, but does so without moving her eyes, turning her entire head until her gaze is on the sleeping mass in the other corner of the room, “O, what do you think?” “Um,” Oliver begins, his body still spread on the chair, head resting on the cushion, legs spread out in front of him, “I’m thinking about how other dimensions could possibly exist.” Ménez turns her head back towards the window, the pivot of her neck economical. “I’m imagining it like a transistor radio, you know? We’re on this wavelength here and that’s why we can bump into each other. But you go to the level of tv waves, same place, and you got yourself pop icons singing in your living room. You tune into radio waves, and you can hear soft jazz while you jog.”

I was sure weren’t going to come but I wish came anyways “How high are you?” I ask.

“Yes I did.”

“Four or five.” He replies, “But you need a machine to reach those, a mechanical extremity, a metal ear to hear those sounds and a metal mouth to speak them.”

“Why?”

“I call bullshit on the four or five.” Says Ménez. “I think you may be right and I need to go fix that.” Says Neir, rising from his chair with the strength of his arms, keeping the relaxed posture of his neck so that his head is the last to rise. “Thanks,” I say. Oliver walks out the door without signing my cast and I direct the next phrase towards Ménez, “What about you?” “I’ll sign your cast.” Ménez replies and stands up before I can protest. I sort of try to twist my foot to get her name out of view. She slides her fingers on the plaster casing of my broken leg, probably looking for a spot large enough to draw something, until she hits her doppelgänger. “But my name is already here.” We’re playing Jenga in zero gravity now. The tower is done. All I can do is keep the pieces together. “Yes it is.” “Did you sign it?”

“Because I’m sad and alone.” I consider complaining about the party I missed but Ménez knows me too well to think I would enjoy it. “That’s a good reason…” She walks around the bed, one foot in front of the other like some sort of ballerina, her eyes jumping from name to name. I feel naked. “And the reason you didn’t ask Oliver to sign it is because… you don’t want anyone to think you want it or need it? Because you don’t want to draw any more attention to it? Because you’ve already signed it for him?” “The first and second for Oliver.” I reply, “There’s no Oliver anywhere. I needed more girls.” “But there is a Monica here,” Ménez traces the cursive letters on my ankle with her fingers. Her mother owns a gypsy shop in the liberal part of town and sometimes I wonder if Ménez can read my mind. I try my best to clear it, or at least fill it with something mundane like roller rink disco. I hear the sound of a sharpie cap popping off and the scritch-scratching of scribbled sharpie writing. I look up to see a dark butterfly, the black thorax of which completely covering the

spot where a perfect caricature of girlcursive ‘Monica’ used to be. “She won’t come by if you don’t invite her and she won’t sign if you don’t ask her.” Says Ménez, popping the sharpie back into its cap with a click and placing it into her mouth, “If that makes her less than your ideal then you’re going die sad and alone.” Her coat is on, and she’s pressed against the doorway. “You’re too deep.” I say. “And you’re too shallow.” She responds. “Get some rest and some backbone.” “I will,” I manage to mouth as she walks out the door.

Chris Insana was born and raised in Flushing, NY. He attended Regis High school before continuing his studies at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. In addition to writing, he has a strong passion for falconry and watching the elderly complain in diners. His short fiction has appeared in such places as his Sony laptop and his USB drive. He commonly incorporates elements of his native New York into his works.

NOTHING BEYOND FREEDOM

Alex was walking through the 86th Street subway station, and there it was, lying next to one of the black, metal garbage cans. He didn’t know what it was when he grabbed it. All he saw was a small glimmering out of the corner of his eye. Tired as he usually was after his morning commute, he was drawn toward it and bent down to grab it without thinking. A man in a pinstripe suit bumped into him, before huffing away in a cloud of obscenities. Alex felt the cold metal of the old fashioned lighter. He turned it over and saw the initials J.B.L. engraved on it. His stomach tightened before reason was able to take hold. Jonathan Lacombe was his father’s name. Alex had to remind himself that his father’s middle name was Philip. The instinct that he was picking up a family relic was killed before it had a chance to blossom. Later that day, he found himself sitting on a toilet in the fourth floor bathroom. Nothing was happening. He had been so sure that he had to go, sure enough that he bolted out of history class at the outbreak of World War One, but so far, nothing. So he sat there, plucking black hairs off of his thigh. Each one he ripped out was met with equal feelings of pain and accomplishment. Then he remembered the lighter. He removed it from his pocket, opened the top, and tried to get it to light. It was a device unfamiliar to him. When it wouldn’t light, Alex wasn’t

sure whether it was because of his own incompetence or because the lighter was broken. After all, it had been abandoned. He tried a few more times, as the skin on his thumb became red from the friction. Finally, the small flame flickered in his hand. Alex waved his hand back and forth through the fire, feeling nothing but imagining the sensation of the small pyre. Never before had he had any desire to burn something. The only encounter he had with fire was lighting the candles on birthday cakes (and on Abby’s last birthday, he burned his finger in the process). But that roll of sandpaper-esque, white toilet paper was too irresistible. He ripped off a square perfectly along the perforation. Alex held onto it by the corner and touched it to the flame. The tissue blackened at the point of contact and began to move up the paper, consuming it. As it approached his fingertip, he dropped the remainders between his legs and into the water (an instinctive reaction that he immediately regretted, as his mind filled with graphic what-if castration-themed scenarios). He tore off another square and repeated the process, making sure his legs were spread wide enough to prevent permanent damages. It was a pleasure to burn, he thought, smiling at his own joke.

He wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep; he never could. J.B.L.’s lighter was fun. Alex doubted whether the former owner had ever burned toilet paper in a bathroom stall. He tugged on the end of the role and let it hang down so that it was a few inches off of the marble floor. More confident in his abilities, he managed to start a flame on his second attempt and lit the hanging stream of paper. The flame scaled the tissue, much faster than Alex had expected it would, and began to burn the whole role. As it swallowed up the paper, the flames began to burn the inside of the black, plastic dispenser. The horrid smell of burning plastic engulfed Alex. He began to cough and cover his eyes to protect them from the smoke, which was now coming out of the burning plastic. Alex pulled up his boxers and khakis as he ran out of the bathroom, looking back to see the smoke coming out the top of the stall. As he entered the hallway, sharp, white lights began to flash and the bell began to clang. Students and teachers poured out into the hall and made their way toward the stairs, some noticing the black smoke coming out of the bathroom door. Alex tried to blend in with the crowd, joining his classmates as they exited room 412. He walked next to his friend Jake, who was using the disruption as an excuse to whip out his cell phone, which was usually a breach of school policy. Right before he got to the stairs, something light landed

on his shoulder, which began to tighten and hold him back. He turned around and saw Fr. Coughlin, the head of the science department and his former chemistry teacher, standing behind him, holding onto his shoulder. From behind his horn rimmed glasses, Fr. Coughlin stared at him. He was staring right at Alex, but his far off gaze always gave the impression that he was looking through you, not at you. “Come with me, Alex,” Fr. Coughlin said. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disappointed. But he knew. Alex never harbored any ill will toward Fr. Coughlin for turning him in. Had he Alex, been anyone except for the culprit, he would have gone on ad nauseum about how stupid someone had to be to start a fire in the bathroom. The bedroom was warmer now than it was when Alex went to bed. At two-thirty this morning, he had been lying awake, under both the sheet and the comforter. His eyes were closed tightly, so that the light from the street lamp outside his window would not bother him, but not tightly enough that he needed to think about doing it. Alex felt himself sweating under his blanket. He kicked off the layers and turned to face his digital alarm clock. Ten to six. Seven o’clock was his designated wakeup time.

“Fuck,” he said, covering his face with his pillow. He wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep; he never could. Getting out of bed was no better an option. His mother would be sitting downstairs at the kitchen table in her robe, sipping Lipton from her pink cup and tossing pieces of graham crackers to their dog, Xena. God, Xena was getting fat. The three of them knew it, but there wasn’t much they could do anymore. Arthritis kept her from walking any farther than the backyard and none of them had the heart to deny her scraps when she would lie at their feet and stare up at them, with her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. The room was too hot. The first two weeks of May were the third hottest on record. Already there were three days above ninety. It was worth having to talk to his mother to get out of here. And water. He needed some water. Alex forced himself out of his bed and into the hallway. As soon as he stepped out, he felt a clump of Xena’s fur beneath his feet. Her fur was everywhere. Luckily, it was the same beige color as the carpet. Bending down, he pulled some stray furs out from between his toes. He went into the bathroom and took a long, rust-colored piss before cupping his hands to drink several mouthfuls of water from the sink. Then, he made his way downstairs.

“You’re up early,” his mother said. She was sitting in the exact position he pictured her. She didn’t turn to face him when he walked into the room. “I couldn’t sleep,” Alex said. He bent down next to his mother to rub Xena’s neck. Her tail clonked into the dishwasher. “The water in the tea kettle is still hot, if you want some tea,” she said. “There are still some bagels from yesterday in the bag on the counter. They’re not that hard.” “I’m not really hungry.” He was now lying on his side on the tile floor, his head resting on Xena’s stomach. She was less interested in him than she was in whatever food item was in his mother’s hand. “Okay,” she said. “How did you sleep last night?” “Fine.” “Fine? I thought I heard you moving around last night.” “Maybe I was dreaming or something.” “Okay. Remember, Dr. Lyman said to call her if this insomnia continues. She said you can leave a message and she’ll get back to you.” “Mom, I’m alright.”

For the first time, she turned around to look at him. But it wasn’t so much of a look as it was an examination. She started at his face, not making too much eye contact but taking care not to avoid it, then slowly looked down the rest of his body. Whatever she saw must have been satisfactory, because she shrugged and broke off a piece of a graham cracker for Xena. “Why don’t you try to go back to bed?” “It’s too hot in my room. Even with the fan on,” he added, knowing what her next suggestion would be. “Okay. Well I have to take Abby to school and then I need to pick up some things at Target so I won’t be back for a while.” “I don’t need you to stay with me all day, Mom,” Alex said. “I have been alone on more than one occasion, you know.” “I know,” she said. Alex got up off the floor and took a seat to the right of his mother, so she wouldn’t have to look directly at him. He didn’t say anything. Neither did she. Was this attitude going to be permanent? Should he just accept the new way she would treat him? Would things go back to the way they were, as recently as six days ago? Or maybe… maybe he wasn’t even the one at fault. Maybe she was the one being unreasonable.

She should be supportive. One day, she would be apologizing to him for how she treated him. Alex liked the indignation; it felt good. He wanted to try it out, to play with it, to see what it did. In his mind, he began to compose monologues that he would recite to his mother, finding just the right arrangement of words that, while not exonerating him, would make her feel guilty. He envisioned conversations that they never had (and probably never would have), coming up with responses to anything she might say to him. Each scenario made him a martyr and her a villain. “Maybe I will try to go back to sleep,” Alex said. “Okay,” said his mother. “Could you let Xena out around ten?” “Yes, Jesus Christ, Mom, I know!” She didn’t say anything. She took her mug to the sink and set about to washing it, taking much longer than any cup should. Alex went back up to his room and sat down on his bed, feeling the springs of the fifteen year old mattress compress beneath him. All week, she’d been acting that way. Anger, he could deal with. Even disappointment would’ve been a better alternative. Those were both justified. But she chose silence,

she chose indifference. What was she feeling? During high school, Alex found himself doing homework into the early hours of the morning. If he was hungry, he’d go down to the kitchen and have a glass of milk and a few Double Stuf Oreos. His mom would always be downstairs in the den, watching Letterman. Sometimes, she’d come in and join him. She’d take an Oreo out of the bag, reach over, and dunk it in his milk. And then they’d talk. Nothing big, just the small things. How The Office was that week, the weird people he saw on the subway, or Xena. The conversations always stayed superficial, a blame split equally between the two parties. She never asked him anything very personal, nor did he volunteer this information. Sometimes he wanted to, but it seemed too out of character for both of them. He had always been quiet and reserved and he got that from her. Likewise, she got that from her mother, and, Alex assumed, she from her mother. It was a vicious infinite regress that doomed generations of his family to isolation. But Alex didn’t mind the separation that lay between himself and his mother, as well as most other people. When he was younger, his mother would always chastise him for not smiling enough.

“You look miserable out there,” she told him driving home from his little league games. “Look like you’re having fun!” “I am having fun,” he said. “Then smile, for God’s sake. You walk around looking like your best friend died.” “Why do I have to smile?” “Nobody wants to be around someone who looks so morose all the time.” “What’s morose?” “Sad. Learn to be happy around people or you’re going to be lonely for the rest of your life. Is that what you want to happen?” Her dark prophecy scared eight and nine year old Alex, forcing him to adopt a lopsided, toothy smile throughout second and third grade. But for Alex, a smile never came naturally; he always had to make the conscious decision to do so. He would be sitting in class, listening to his teacher when suddenly uh-oh-I’m-not-smiling. How long his smiles lasted, he was never sure. At some later point, he would realize that it had faded from his face and pull out another one. Each day he tried his hardest to smile for as long as he could. When school picture day rolled around, he put on the best smile he had, the one that would be sure to draw friends to him like a magnet.

“Let’s get a nice big smile from the young man,” the red-headed photographer with the purple bow tie had said to him, with an unnatural amount of joy in his voice. “We can make silly faces later. Now give me a nice smile so that we can have a picture to give to Grandma and Grandpa.” What did the man mean? He wasn’t being silly. Didn’t he know that this was Alex’s smile, the award winning smile that would make sure he had a plethora of friends forever? Alex contorted his mouth as best he could, according to the photographer’s instructions, even though he had no reason to smile. He tried all sorts of different positions for his lips and teeth, following the instructions of the photographer. The end product was nothing more than a toothless grin. The nine year old boy with the bowl haircut looked more like he was in pain than he was happy, a fact that he was reminded of each time he saw the picture, which was held up by a flower magnet on his grandmother’s refrigerator. From then on, Alex had no reason to smile. Sure, he laughed when something was funny or smiled when he was happy or was taking a family picture. But he no longer heeded his mother’s warning of how lonely he would be if he weren’t perpetually happy. Seventeen year old Alex now knew that she was wrong. Being lonely and being

alone were not the same thing. Of course, he enjoyed spending time with his friends form the neighborhood and from school. But he relished those moments when he was by himself, the long subway commutes to and from school, the hours spent doing homework in a cubicle in the back of the library, and his evening jogs where he could run around the park and listen to Bruce. His time spent alone was great. But he did want those late nights of eating Oreos back. He got up off of his bed and walked over to his roll top desk. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a black Adidas box. Alex pulled off the lid to reveal several dozen movie ticket stubs that he had accumulated over the course of his high school career. He sifted through the multicolored pieces of paper (including three for The Dark Knight) to find the objects underneath: a gold pocket watch that had gotten at a garage sale that turned out to be beyond repair, an unopened Trojan that he found in the parking lot of a CVS which would almost certainly go unused by its expiration date, and a silver lighter. Then again, there was no reason why he should have picked it up last Tuesday. He sat on the edge of his bed and lit the lighter once more. It wasn’t the first time since his first arson.

Oh, God, he thought to himself. Am I really an arsonist? Surely an arsonist had to be more than just someone who set toilet paper on fire. Couldn’t that just be chalked up to boys-will-be-boys or something like that? At an all-boys school, they had to expect some horseplay to go on. And no one was hurt. And there was only minor damage to the stall. The sprinkler system didn’t even go off. But he still set something on fire. The philosophical questions began to sink in. Was he a normal person who just happened to burn something or was he an arsonist who usually didn’t burn things? Alex flicked his wrist and snapped the lighter shut. Nobody knew that he still had it. Or, more accurately, nobody even wondered what had happened to it. It wasn’t like a gun in a murder trial; they didn’t have to dust for fingerprints. He was guilty. He didn’t have the foresight to check the bottoms of the stalls to make sure he was alone before igniting a roll of toilet paper. That stupidity he displayed was the real crime. Burning toilet paper in a marble bathroom was a victimless crime. But getting caught was careless. That was the punishable offense. Growing up, his mother’s go-to comment had always been some variation of “How can you be so smart and yet so stupid?”

He put the light back into the box and moved tickets stubs for “The Wrestler” and “I Love You, Man” on top of it, before putting it back in the drawer. Alex propped up a pillow, lay on his bed, and set about playing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare. While he was calling in an air strike, he heard the melodic beeping of Abby’s alarm clock. She walked passed his closed door into the bathroom. As he was shooting at his opponent, SkUllKrUhsEr87 (Who are these people playing at seven thirty on a weekday morning?), the toilet flushed and the sink was turned on. Abby always let the water run while she brushed her teeth. When he would use the bathroom later in the day, Alex would be guaranteed to find pink gooey remnants of her bubble gum flavored toothpaste on the rim of the sink. There was a tapping on his door shortly after the sink was turned off. “Yeah,” Alex said. Abby opened the door and stuck her head in, facing downward. She respected his privacy more than was necessary. Whenever she came in, her eyes went straight to the floor, as though he were always doing something that she was not supposed to see. “You’re really lucky, Alex,” she said. Alex knew where this was going, but he played along anyway. “Why am I lucky?” he asked.

“Because,” she said, elongating the word. “You don’t have to go to school today.” “I’m not allowed to go to school today,” he said. “They won’t let me back in until next week.” “I know, but still. It’s like you get a vacation. I have a math test today.” “Did you study for it?” “Yeah but it’s still going to be really hard.” “What’s it on?” “Word problems.” “Word problems, ouch. Those can be tricky.” “Do you ever have to do any word problems?” “Not anymore. It’s a lot of graphs and symbols and stuff.” “You’re so lucky. I hate word problems.” She ventured a glance at him. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.” “Thanks.” She closed the door on her way out. The boundaries that she assumed limited their relationship were a puzzle to him. True, seven years—almost eight, really— was a large gap. By the time he was six, he had resigned himself to being an only child. Then her father, Glen, came into the picture. He had always been nice to Alex. For his

Alex didn’t know what the expectations were fifth birthday, Glen gave him a Hot Wheels set. Thirty two months later, he gave him a sister. It was a change, having a third person in the house. Alex didn’t know what the expectations were of being an older brother, but he liked the idea of it. Before Abby was born, he would sit and think about what he would do as an older brother. He pictured scenarios where the two of them were on a playground and someone was picking on his sister. Alex went over, pushed her behind him with his left arm, and punched the offending party with a right hook. In these fantasies, his sister would have no face, no personality. She was just a shell that needed his protection. But in over nine years, none of his old daydreams had been actualized. At their current age, the age difference was an impossible gap to bridge. Alex told himself that they would grow close once they were in their twenties. A long wait, yes, relationships took time to fortify. In the meantime, he accepted the distance that she inserted between them. Their mother was a topic that they would only have in common. Soon enough, she’d realize that the two of them were the only ones on Earth who would be able to make jokes about their mother. Right now, Abby was still in the stage where anything but unadulterated flattery spoken about her parents was blasphemous, which she would grow out of

soon enough. He looked forward to that day. Assuming, of course, he didn’t kill her opinion of him by then. Getting suspended from your prestigious high school isn’t the easiest thing to explain to a nine year old, especially when your justification is “because-I-wanted-to-burn-toilet-paper.” Alex tried not to think about how teenage Abby would remember that week where her brother was an arsonist. He emptied his head and gave his concentration back to the Xbox. Abby walked down the stairs a few minutes later, with footsteps loud enough to belong to a small horse. She had to be wearing her boots; Alex hadn’t realized it was raining. Then, a thought came to his mind and he went downstairs after her. He walked into the kitchen. His mother was packing Abby’s lunch in the lunchbox that Glen bought for her at the Bronx Zoo. Xena was staring at Abby, a long wad of saliva hanging from the right side of her mouth. Abby was at the table, playing with a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Every third bite or so would make it into her mouth. The rest found themselves raised in a spoon and then dropped back into the milky puddle. “Do you need anything from Target?” his mom asked. “Yeah,” Alex said. “Can you pick me up a box of Oreos?”

His mom didn’t say anything. Alex wasn’t sure if she even heard him, yet alone if she knew the significance behind his request. Was it an experience that they both shared or just something that he imposed meaning on?

“Mom, it’s fine. She already makes her bed every day. I didn’t do that when I was her age. I still don’t.”

“Abby,” his mom said. “Hurry up and finish your cereal.”

“Abby,” she said. “Let’s go. Don’t forget to let Xena out.”

“I don’t want anymore,” Abby said. “Can I give the rest to Xena?”

“I know,” Alex said.

“No. Xena needs to lose weight.”

ten years old. She needs to start cleaning up after herself.”

Abby walked into the kitchen wearing her backpack. “Wish me luck on my math test, Alex.”

“Okay, then I’m done.” She hopped off of her chair and went into the dining room to get her pink backpack.

“Good luck. You won’t need it though.”

“Put your bowl in the sink,” his mom shouted.

“Then good luck. Take all the luck you need.”

“I got it,” said Alex, picking up Abby’s bowl and washing it out in the sink. He scraped out the sugary squares that had gotten stuck to the side and then turned on the garbage disposal. “You shouldn’t do that,” his mom said to him. Alex thought he detected a certain tenderness in her voice, rather than disapproval. A tenderness that should covered much nicer words, which she didn’t want to say to him. But then again, he could just have been imagining it. “She’s almost

“No! Don’t say that. I do need it.”

“Thank you.” “Abby,” his mom said. “Come on. Alex, remember, Xena.” “I know,” he said. Then they were gone. He was alone. Xena sat on the tiled floor panting. He reached over and rubbed her snout. She responded with an appreciative wag of her tail. Alex had always loved Xena, especially now that her limitations as a dog prevented her from seeing him any differently.

“Come on,” he said. He walked into the den and she limped along behind him, stopping and plopping her body down next to the couch. Alex turned on the TV and tried to find something worth watching. The Today show was an option, although he didn’t care about the fun new summer toys that an enthusiastic blonde woman promised to demonstrate. He could just watch Sportscenter on loop for a while, an activity that used to fill up all of his summer mornings as a twelve and thirteen year old. Then, he came across Jerry Springer. After thirty seconds, two fistfights between angry women, and the audience cheering “Jerry!” while pumping their fists, Alex decided that this punishment did not fit the crime. Psycho was playing on AMC. It was only halfway through. He had, however, missed the stabbing scene. “Not too shabby, Xena,” Alex said. She lifted the head at the mention of her name, but went back to sleep as soon as she realized that nobody was calling her to feed her. As Alex lay on the sofa, his mind began to wander, as it had during the last week. He couldn’t focus on Norman Bates any more than any book or newspaper he tried to read or TV show he tried to watch. Everything somehow tied back to the lighter. Why? Over and over again, why. It had given him no pleasure. Had it been in

his hand now, he would not have ignited anything. But that didn’t matter. Neither did the millions of other minutes he had lived where he never had the desire to burn anything. Yet he would be defined for the rest of high school (and beyond? How far could this fucking thing follow him?) as the asshole that started a fire in the boy’s fourth floor bathroom. All because of that momentary lapse of reason. Or, even worse, that possession, when someone other than Alex thought it might be funny to turn some toilet paper into ash. When Psycho ended, he let Xena out into the backyard. She struggled to get down the three stone steps before finding a spot that she thought satisfactory to squat to pee on. As soon as his mother came home, she would ask him if he had let her out, assuming that he had forgotten to do so. She’d always been like that. It wasn’t a new addition to her personality in her life postlearning that her only son is an arsonist. How many people knew? Sure, his friends knew, but they didn’t care. They knew it was a stupid move and had told him so many times since it happened. What about the teachers? Good luck finding two of them willing to write an essay so that the arsonist could try to get into Brown. Would they know about this? He grew nauseous as he considered the possibility that his entire

future was in jeopardy because of one moment of stupidity. All of his friends had plenty of those moments, but his was the only one that stood out. And his family. Oh, God, the family. He assumed that his mother hadn’t told any of them. She would be too embarrassed, and rightfully so. Then again, his family knowing wouldn’t be too bad. His grandmother would be horrified, but the rest would see it as something to laugh at. He didn’t come from a family of saints. Around 10:15, Alex heard the front door open. Xena gave a single, loud, bark before waddling off in the direction of the door with her tail wagging. “Alex,” his mother called. “Come here and help me with the bags.” He got up off the couch and met his mother at the front door. She handed him a plastic bag decorated with red targets that contained an assortment of soaps, shampoos, and deodorants. He saw that she bought him a stick of Old Spice. He picked up another one that looked like it was full of cereal. “Did you remember to let Xena out?” she asked. “Yes.” “Good. There’s still a few bags in the car. Could you grab them?”

“Yeah sure.” He started to walk out the front door, and then stopped. “Did you remember to get Double Stuf Oreos?” “Oh. No, I forgot.” As she walked toward the kitchen with Xena at her heels, Alex went outside to get the rest of the bags.

Erin Johnson is a senior English major and government minor at Georgetown and has been writing since she can remember (or, according to her family’s record, since the particularly poignant second-grade piece entitled “My Life As a Pencil”). Growing up in suburban New Jersey, close to New York City, has heavily influenced her writing—a setting she has tried to capture in “Scabs.” While this is one of her first official publications, she has done freelance writing for several blogs and hopes to pursue creative writing and have more pieces published in the future.

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SCABS

Just promise me you won’t walk home by yourself. Step one. Kat’s tan, thin sandal scraped against the dark pavement; her big toe was been bleeding—for how long now?—and she hadn’t even noticed. She looked down and saw that the blood had already congealed at the edge of her shoe like the childhood scrapes she used to get after being tripped on the soccer field had, scabs she had picked at and picked at and picked at until they were raw. Her father used to apply Neosporin painstakingly after cleaning them off with rubbing alcohol, a sharp sting followed by that inevitable moment when she could finally breathe, tears still searing her eight-year-old eyes as he applied a colorful Band-Aid. Never pick at your scabs! Step four. The rows of speeding cars down Third Avenue grew further away as she walked towards what she thought was the direction of her dorm building. Or was she going towards Washington Square Park? How late did the subways run? She pulled her iPhone out of the black Fossil bag her mother had carefully selected for her two weeks before school had started—she had already had a “college bag,” a gift from her older brother Ed, but her mother wouldn’t have known that—and pulled up Google Maps. The tiny blue dot, pulsating like a

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heartbeat, had somehow her placed in the Hudson River. “Great,” she muttered, the familiar click of the screen locking echoing in the October air as she shoved the phone back into her bag. Her tongue sat thickly in her mouth, still tasting like it was coated in pretzel M&M’s and candy corn and Natty Light and that weird coffee-flavored vodka some senior had offered her and the Artichoke’s Pizza slice she had devoured in about two point five seconds flat with that random guy she had met at the party. She wondered if she was leaving a tiny trail of blood as she was walking—if it would matter. Most likely not. She was just another kid living in another dorm on another block in another borough of this stupid island. “Did you know New York City alone has almost the same amount of people as the entire continent of Australia?” someone had asked her excitedly a few hours ago. She had immediately imagined kangaroos and koalas hopping and climbing up the Empire State Building or making their way across the ice in Rockefeller Center in December, then skyscrapers stretching from the barren ground of the Outback all the way into the deep night, obscuring the stars that usually dotted the clear sky. Her father had taken her to Australia once over one of her high school winter breaks, leaving her brothers and mother home for a rare occasion of father-daughter bonding; the stars had

Footsteps matched her own, rates per second increasing gleamed in her sixteen-year-old eyes for the entire trip. Please make sure you’re eating enough!

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finally settled on the vegan station. Kat ate a bowl of kale, chewing it like she imagined a cow chewed its cud, feeling her stomach tightening against her thick brown belt with every bite. Family dinners had always concluded with “dessert”: some kind of fat-free sorbet her mother had picked up from the gelato shop down the road, lemon or raspberry or strawberry-poppy seed glaring at her in its pastel hue. She ate her fifth Hayden Cookies, the white chocolate macadamia erasing any memory of the kale she had just had, a blank slate.

Step twenty-three. Her feet seemed heavier and her big toe was throbbing with each step. Would it be stupid to try and hail a cab at this point? What was her building’s exact address again? Where were the persistent streaks of egg yolk-yellow she had grown so accustomed to seeing speeding through town throughout the day—where the hell was she? She could feel her bare thighs burning and rubbing against each other as she quickened her strides and pictured her mother’s thin figure, her collarbone protruding, framed by wisps of blonde hair and delicate sterling silver chains. She always wore belts, all of them cinched tightly at the (twenty-eight inch) waist; her bowls of kale and cups of iced coffee had always sat intimidatingly on the table next to Kat’s S’mores Pop-Tarts or Ramen noodles (“so much sodium!”).

You know whenever you need us, either your father or I will be there.

Her first day at the dining hall, only two months ago, had been disastrous. She and her roommate—on speaking terms at that point—had wandered around aimlessly on the bottom level of Hayden (“Hayden’s Cookies voted best on campus in the 2011 Best of NYU Dining Contest!” a neon green poster plastered on the wall outside of their room had promised) until they

Ed had her father’s forehead; his straight, broad nose; his pale blue eyes; the way he could move his hands over a piano, their fingers dipping into the white keys and climbing up the black ones; the Neosporinapplying tendencies. Bill had (what she imagined had once been) her father’s straight blonde hair (it had always stuck up in tufts when she was younger); his broad

Step fifty-four. She had finally found her way to the park and ran her fingers lightly over the concrete of the chess tables where she had brought her brothers to play when they first visited. “I need you, Ed,” she had said to him over the grainy Skype connection. He and Bill, one year younger than Ed, were there two days later.

shoulders; his self-proclaimed ninety-fivemile-an-hour tennis serve; the ability to drink whiskey straight from the bottle the way he had the week after their mother had moved out. They spent the weekend walking through the city until they finally found a bar that let Kat in with the fake ID Ed had gotten for her when she was sixteen; she let the whiskey coat her throat as she forgot about the Hayden Hall cookies, the neon sign in her hallway, the way her roommate didn’t even look up when she walked into the room anymore, the barrage of texts lighting up her phone in its strange blue glow—“Mom 8:14 PM; Mom 8:27 PM; Mom 9:14 PM; Mom 10:27 PM.” I have to say these things, you know; it’s in the Mom handbook. Step ninety-two. As she turned the corner along the edge of the park she remembered being seven and asking her mother why her breath smelled so terrible in the morning; “Every morning, before you, Ed, and Bill wake up, I sneak into the kitchen and eat an entire bag of Doritos,” she had explained. “Blue or red?” Kat had asked, eight-year-old eyes wide at the revelation of this incredible indiscretion. Her mother had leaned close to Kat, her breath warm against her ear as she scratched her back. “Red,” she whispered,

giggling. She had believed her until she turned twelve and jaded, realizing the handbook hadn’t ever existed. Just promise me you won’t walk home by yourself. Step one hundred eleven. The deep purple flag of Hayden Hall was highlighted by the pale yellow of the streetlight a few blocks away; finally home. She quickened her stride as the familiar tri-tone of her phone sounded, slightly muffled, through her bag. Squinting into the black hole of her bag, she reached for it, digging through her sharp room key and spare dollar bills and chapstick until she finally felt her hand graze the smooth glass screen. “Just a quarter, some change, spare, anything,” a gruff voice scratched through the October air a few feet next to her. She jumped, her grip tightening around the strap of her bag on her left shoulder, and quickened her pace even more. She remembered learning in Australia that sharks could smell blood from up to a quarter of a mile away. “Just something.” The voice was following her, scratching, scabbing the air. Footsteps matched her own, rates per second increasing and increasing as she saw the glow of the streetlight becoming brighter, more yellow.

It was step one hundred fifty-two when his arm came across her chest. One hundred fifty-three, four, five as she stumbled backwards and fell to the ground, all of her weight landing on her tailbone as she struggled to force the wind she had lost back into her throat. “Something,” his voice scratched again, more aggressive this time. She scrambled through her bag, the soft black leather meeting her hand like sandpaper, trying to pull down her skirt and inch backwards, dirt and twigs and gravel scraping the backs of her legs as she moved. His figure loomed over her, tattered pants, seemingly gossamer-thin and waving in the cold wind, thick cardigan, face obscured by the darkness. He took a few steps closer, not bending down yet but poised above her, feet inching towards her legs. “I only have this,” she breathed, throwing the few dollar bills she had in front of her; they swirled slowly, almost comically, in the now seemingly-frigid air and fell back towards her, a boomerang. He laughed, the sound like her family’s staticky television scraping through the living room while Ed frantically tried to find a channel with the Saturday morning news. “Stupid bitch.” His arm came across her chest again and she was forced backwards as he tore at her purse and took her wallet

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and phone. Steps one, two, three, twenty-five and he was gone. Just promise me you won’t walk home by yourself. She had her father’s pale blue eyes; his broad shoulders; his oversized earlobes (“Buddha ears,” as Bill used to call them); his obsession with oldies music; his tendency to trust. Yet as she scraped the dirt and blood off of the backs of her legs, breath caught in her throat and tears searing her eighteen-year-old eyes, she felt her mother’s rigid adherence to rules and regimes congeal at the edges, a scab she knew she would continue to pick and pick and pick.

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Book Designer: Alexandria Mazzurco Miami University, 351 Print Design Systems, 2012 Text by Amber Robinson, Kate Brody, Kaylee Walsh, Anna Jolly, Jacquelyn Stolos, Alex Sanchez, Maciej Kietlinski, Chris Insana, Eric Johnson, Georgetown University, 2012 Typography: Gotham designed by Tobias Frere-Jones, 2000 Typography: Archer designed by Hoefler & Frere-Jones , 2001

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