passive-aggressive child pushing a plant off the sill to make Mommy mad: She lied. A lie borne of small and secret vengeance. A momentary reprisal.
Even that doesn't add up. It isn't the whole picture. A part of the puzzle, maybe – the edge of it, the margins, painting by negative space – but it's not the whole of the image.
She does all she can do for the moment. She smokes.
What to do, what to do.
She's got a pocket full of money. She could do anything. Catch a cab. Find a greasy spoon. Hit a strip club. Ditch her cell phone, buy a burner. Grab a bus to somewhere she's never been. To nowhere. To Maine, California, New Orleans, Montreal, Tijuana. Lobster, avocados, beignets, donkey shows.
None of it sounds appealing. That surprises her. Those things should all be pretty great. But the very notion of escaping again doesn't do anything for her. Like a flat soda, the bubbles have all gone.
Miriam takes the tequila, breaks the cap.
Drink up.
Smooth and sour going down. It sits in her stomach like a gym sock soaked in cider vinegar and scorpion venom.
She belches. Nearby, scared birds take flight.
Right now, her thoughts are like hangnails. She wants to pick at them even if that means pulling them so far it unzips her arm into a bloody bisected mess.
Easy solution to soothe the soul: Hair dye. A balm for bad thoughts.
Goodbye, ugly chestnut mop. Goodbye, old original. Goodbye, good girl.
Hello, fuchsia motherfucking flamingo.
FOURTEEN
The Bad Girls' Club
Well. That didn't work out.
Miriam sits outside the principal's office with a handful of flimsy brown paper towels wadded up around her collar. All of them, sodden. In her pocket, an as-yet-unopened package of pink hair dye.
Her scalp burns. Especially around the bullet-dug skin-ditch.
She figured, fuck it, I can dye my hair in one of the girls' restrooms. Who cares, right? She went in, wandered around for a while, found a bathroom. Started killing the old chestnut color with a bleach wash, and while she was in there she shared a couple smokes with some of the older girls who came in. One of them was a nice black girl named Sharise, the other her gawky white friend Bella.
They smoked. Talked about the hell of high school. Good times.
But then – po-po came rolling in. Five-oh. Someone must have seen her wandering the halls and called the front desk and before she knew what was happening she was being escorted here by a pair of security guards. One guy who looked like a hyper-roided authority machine with a shorn scalp and muscles ill-contained by his guard uniform. The other guy looking like the Italian plumber from that video game. But shorter. And a little fatter.
And now the principal's office. Or just outside it. Facing a wall with wooden wainscoting. Brass sconces. Dullsville. Boredopolis. Yawnworld.
Next to her is some red-haired little twat with a smear of freckles across the bridge of her nose, sitting there with her smug arms folded over a bunched-up navy blazer hugged tight against her chest. The girl smells faintly of cigarettes. Different brand from what Miriam smokes.
Wait.
Miriam gets another look at her.
"You're that girl."
The girl scowls. Sneers. Eyebrow arched. "What?"
"The girl. With the sketchbook. And the–" Miriam mimics the slap-down move. "Blammo."
"Oh. Yeah. She said my leaf looked like dog butt."
"Did it?"
"Mostly. But that's no reason to be rude. A lot of the world looks like dog butt. Doesn't mean you should go around saying so."
Miriam shrugs. "I dunno. That's how I treat life."
"Your breath is rank."
"And that's obviously how you treat life, too. Yeah, I know my breath is rank. I just drank tequila."
"Out of a Port-a-Potty toilet?"
"Cute. That'd be the bleach you're smelling."
"This isn't a hair salon, you know."
"My god," Miriam, "you are such a little
Even that doesn't add up. It isn't the whole picture. A part of the puzzle, maybe – the edge of it, the margins, painting by negative space – but it's not the whole of the image.
She does all she can do for the moment. She smokes.
What to do, what to do.
She's got a pocket full of money. She could do anything. Catch a cab. Find a greasy spoon. Hit a strip club. Ditch her cell phone, buy a burner. Grab a bus to somewhere she's never been. To nowhere. To Maine, California, New Orleans, Montreal, Tijuana. Lobster, avocados, beignets, donkey shows.
None of it sounds appealing. That surprises her. Those things should all be pretty great. But the very notion of escaping again doesn't do anything for her. Like a flat soda, the bubbles have all gone.
Miriam takes the tequila, breaks the cap.
Drink up.
Smooth and sour going down. It sits in her stomach like a gym sock soaked in cider vinegar and scorpion venom.
She belches. Nearby, scared birds take flight.
Right now, her thoughts are like hangnails. She wants to pick at them even if that means pulling them so far it unzips her arm into a bloody bisected mess.
Easy solution to soothe the soul: Hair dye. A balm for bad thoughts.
Goodbye, ugly chestnut mop. Goodbye, old original. Goodbye, good girl.
Hello, fuchsia motherfucking flamingo.
FOURTEEN
The Bad Girls' Club
Well. That didn't work out.
Miriam sits outside the principal's office with a handful of flimsy brown paper towels wadded up around her collar. All of them, sodden. In her pocket, an as-yet-unopened package of pink hair dye.
Her scalp burns. Especially around the bullet-dug skin-ditch.
She figured, fuck it, I can dye my hair in one of the girls' restrooms. Who cares, right? She went in, wandered around for a while, found a bathroom. Started killing the old chestnut color with a bleach wash, and while she was in there she shared a couple smokes with some of the older girls who came in. One of them was a nice black girl named Sharise, the other her gawky white friend Bella.
They smoked. Talked about the hell of high school. Good times.
But then – po-po came rolling in. Five-oh. Someone must have seen her wandering the halls and called the front desk and before she knew what was happening she was being escorted here by a pair of security guards. One guy who looked like a hyper-roided authority machine with a shorn scalp and muscles ill-contained by his guard uniform. The other guy looking like the Italian plumber from that video game. But shorter. And a little fatter.
And now the principal's office. Or just outside it. Facing a wall with wooden wainscoting. Brass sconces. Dullsville. Boredopolis. Yawnworld.
Next to her is some red-haired little twat with a smear of freckles across the bridge of her nose, sitting there with her smug arms folded over a bunched-up navy blazer hugged tight against her chest. The girl smells faintly of cigarettes. Different brand from what Miriam smokes.
Wait.
Miriam gets another look at her.
"You're that girl."
The girl scowls. Sneers. Eyebrow arched. "What?"
"The girl. With the sketchbook. And the–" Miriam mimics the slap-down move. "Blammo."
"Oh. Yeah. She said my leaf looked like dog butt."
"Did it?"
"Mostly. But that's no reason to be rude. A lot of the world looks like dog butt. Doesn't mean you should go around saying so."
Miriam shrugs. "I dunno. That's how I treat life."
"Your breath is rank."
"And that's obviously how you treat life, too. Yeah, I know my breath is rank. I just drank tequila."
"Out of a Port-a-Potty toilet?"
"Cute. That'd be the bleach you're smelling."
"This isn't a hair salon, you know."
"My god," Miriam, "you are such a little
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