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PRETTY Miranda Jacobson Sierra Nevada College

A bell rings somewhere, and I know I’ll be late to class if I don’t move. My feet don’t touch the ground when I sit in the chairs here, and everyone smells like they haven’t showered in a few days. A few boys laugh and joke as they walk past me, but one boy stops. His eyes belong to me. They trail my body like a priceless painting. I should feel flattered, since all the other girls want boys to look at them the way he’s looking at me. “Who are you?” he asks me. “Kate,” I tell him. My voice is sweet as honey, dripping down my lips. I can see him salivate over the drops. I almost tell him to get a taste. He says, “Kate, you’re a butterface.” They all laugh and walk away, their backpacks hanging down so low they might touch the ground. I don’t understand why they’re laughing at me. My hand swipes against my cheeks, checking for butter, but nothing sticks to the tips of my skin. I look at my friend who sits across the table and ask her what a butterface is. “It’s when everything about her is hot, but her face.” She draws out the last three words, trying to show me the meaning of the slang. My honey dries up and I take my bag. I don’t feel flattered anymore. I just feel an ache in my chest. “I can’t wait to be done with the sixth grade,” I tell her. The moment is over, but I’ll never forget it. I grow out of making honey. It all disappears as my bones begin to stretch and the world changes without any warning. One morning I wake up and men are watching my every move. I walked down the street as a child and clung to my mom for protection, but when I am finally old enough to go out on my own, I’m faced with fear. My whole life I grew up thinking that everyone would do the right thing all the time, but it took a stranger reaching their hand under my dress at my first high school dance to make me realize that not every man was raised by my mother. I spend time at my best friend Rachel’s house. After graduating high school, there isn’t much to do except spend our time drinking too much alcohol and drunk texting our ex-boyfriends. When we’re not getting drunk, we’re watching reality TV or working at a coffee




Profile for Oakland Arts Review

Oakland Arts Review Volume 4  

Oakland Arts Review Volume 4