Holly Brantley
Snakes When I was a little girl, it was rumored that I was a child of Satan because I wasn’t afraid of snakes. Aurora glanced at me and frowned. “Don’t even think about it.” I shot her a look, huddling closer to her as the cool March air bit at my bare legs. “Think about what?” “You know what.” Aurora jerked her head over to the part of the schoolyard where the boys were playing marbles. “I’ve already told you that you’re just making it worse.” “And why’s that?” “Because Emmy, you’re a girl.” “I don’t see what that has to do with it.” “And that’s exactly why you don’t need to go over there.” “All I’m doing is playing marbles with them,” I argued. “I’m good at it and they’re sweet to me when I play.” Aurora sucked her cheeks in. “That’s because they’re looking up your dress when you play, Emmy. That’s why they’re sweet.” I felt the heat rising to my face. At 12 years old, there was nothing more mortifying to me than the prospect of boys looking up my dress.
Volume LV | 7
