read, cinnamon sticks steaming incense that swirls in the air like stormclouds in fastmotion. I imagine their clandestine meetings, flocks of little sparrow-girls gathering beneath staircases, bird-cage stomachs gurgling with ice water and celery stalks. I burn with admiration and envy, knowing I’ve missed signups, meetings, membership, recognition. I play catchup by myself, determined to one day earn a spot into the secret club and be a bird-girl, a fairy. A creepy Halloween doll with M&M eyes and licorice hair, all my wants displayed like candyland on my skin but scrubbed clean from my head and heart. My cravings will grate on me ‘till my skin lies soft and tender across my body, easily torn and leaking chocolate blood. Everyone will see the things I want and marvel at all the lurid colors coated thick on my arms and legs. They’ll pluck me off a shelf and stare at me and rap their fingers on my wooden chest, listening to the echoes. Meanwhile I’ll be tucked safe inside myself, in the dark, basking in the warmth of their attention. This is the club I dream about, write about, cry about. The girls are beautiful and frightening, talking about all the things they want but will never let themselves have, all lined up on a shelf for me to adore and despise. I’ll slap on a pricetag, I’ll wear their costumes, I’ll writhe and button and squeeze until I fit. So I join. But nothing much changes. The thing about secret clubs is everyone’s so scared of exposure that they won’t talk. They’ll share a few whispers with each other and then burst into giggles like it’s all a joke. That’s the hardest part, laughing. Acting. I can’t do it. I’m stunned at their easy smiles and non-sequiturs, so effortlessly slung from their mouths, even though I know we’re all hosts to the same parasite, eating us inside out. After it The first shock wave hits when I’m waiting by the parking lot, plaid skirt in need of ironing, green-and-blue scrunchie tangled in knots of my hair. December wind slithers under my sweater and bites my bones raw. The cold is an assault and I’m helpless against it, even with kneesocks stretched all the way up my thighs to maximize skin coverage. I cup my palms around my mouth to defrost my lips. I turn around and gaze at my school, the pearl-white stone adorned with delicate coils of ivy like party streamers. I stare dumbly at the bricks at the base of the buildings, red bleached to pale pink over the years, each one fringed in needle-point beads of snow. The flurries fall softly around me, so light compared to the wind I can’t feel them. The trees are glistening and draped in white evening gowns, off-the-shoulder sleeves and gaping slits revealing green bristles underneath. Everything looks dressed up, elegant. The campus offers me a stolid goodbye as the familiar maroon MDX pulls into the parking lot to drive me away.
52