Wintergirls: Chapters 015.00–029.00

I roll out of the badlands, past scrub cedar trees and a boarded-up church.

He regurgitates his chewed story for me, another paying customer feasting on the dead blonde.

Anime shape-shifters battle bad guys on the screen, a cheap Japanimation matinee.

I inscribe three lines, hush hush hush...

I set the roll on the edge of the plate, Brussels sprouts at two and four o’clock, equidistant.

He was so smitten he went back every day for a week, making up dumb questions about home equity loans and IRAs.

He was so smitten he went back every day for a week, making up dumb questions about home equity loans and IRAs.

Her nails are short and polish-free, the magic fingers connected to the hands connected to the forearms roped with steel muscle and tendons that lead to shoulders, neck and bionic brain.

Dad kisses her; Dr. Marrigan gives her a clinical smile.

Maybe he was a figment of my imagination. The whole day could have been a blackout dream I spun for myself because admitting that I spent the whole day in bed is pathetic.

Mom, acid-eyes: You coddle her, you let her call the shots.
Dad, louder: Did you just say we coddle her?

Two gallons of discount-store red punch and tiny paper cups are arranged in a lovely display next to the plate of generic black-and-white cookies.

While we wait for stragglers, the soccer team complains about not getting enough time in the weight room, and the drama girls whine about the new director, a prima donna who has confused our school with Broadway.

She proclaims the rules establishes the parameters of our discussion.

He did not speculate about the size or condition of my interior organs.

They should have put her crochet needle in the box next to her, and yarn so she’ll have something to do in Eternity. Some Gaiman, Tolkien, Butler, a few tabloids, mints—peppermint, not wintergreen—her swimming ribbons and Girl Scout badges, the posters from the plays she was in.

He’s wearing a button-down dingy shirt with a sad black tie.

The beads click on my abacus: twelve ounces of hot chocolate = 400, but I am freezing.

“Where should I start? Poet, philosopher, fisherman. My pop calls me a bum, but that’s elitist, don’t you think? I can split wood, spread mulch, pour beer and grow perfect tomatoes.”

“Where should I start? Poet, philosopher, fisherman. My pop calls me a bum, but that’s elitist, don’t you think? I can split wood, spread mulch, pour beer and grow perfect tomatoes.”

“I’m an ace poker player, a shaman and a wanderer in search of truth. I can drive a cab, a motorcycle and ride a bull, but not for long. I shovel manure in an original and artistic manner. As soon as I get my car fixed up, I will become a gypsy looking for a lost world.”

Recite affirmations, reread Life Goals, meditate on positive thoughts.

Yes, I think the undertaker did a crappy job.

“Oh, really?” She pulls her face into the mask of outrage: eyes wide, head jutted forward, mouth hanging open in pretend shock.

The flies throw themselves against the window with wet, angry noises, then hover above me, waiting to crawl into my mouth. Maybe they’re Cassie’s familiars, escorts from the grave heralding her arrival.

I sit on her fat leather couch, purse on the floor, and pull the hideous raspberry-coloured afghan over me.

::Some Girl!/Useless!/Delirious!::

I have plucked stray hairs from at least seven different people out of the afghan: a long black one, a shiny white one, a wispy blonde, a curly auburn, a brown hair that was white at the root, and a short hair that could have been a guy’s—or a girl’s who doesn’t fuss with the way she looks.

I have plucked stray hairs from at least seven different people out of the afghan: a long black one, a shiny white one, a wispy blonde, a curly auburn, a brown hair that was white at the root, and a short hair that could have been a guy’s—or a girl’s who doesn’t fuss with the way she looks.

He takes a bite and the cheese strings like a suspension bridge from his mouth to his hand. “Want some?”

...empty is strong and invincible.

“I don’t know how to play.”
“I’m appalled. How old are you?”

“Need a goodbye kiss? I’m happy to oblige.”

Jennifer is massaging lotion into Dad’s right wrist and hand. All the extra typing on his overdue book must have aggravated his carpal tunnel.

I try to ignore her, but every time I turn around, she materializes in front of my eyes.