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you a couple more questions for my survey.”
    â€œOkay,” she says, sounding groggy. “Questions?”
    â€œI punched a girl in the stomach,” I say. “At the mall. I did it because I was angry, and I don’t know if it was right or not. I don’t think it was.” I pause, and I can hear her husband saying, “Who is it?” in the background. “I don’t mean because she was a girl,” I say. “I’m not sure exactly what the differences are between a man and a woman. I wish I knew more. I know that I’m much bigger than her, and that her boyfriend was much bigger than me.”
    â€œDid he hit you?” she says, and I nod.
    â€œYeah, but I knew that he would. I just couldn’t control myself. For that couple of minutes she symbolized everything that is wrong with how we perceive beauty as a society; she was the store-bought ideal that drives girls to bulimia and anorexia. She was the skinny thinspiration that helps thirteen-year-olds put off eating for just one more day, and so I walked over and punched her.”
    â€œWhy?” Mrs. Hubert says, and she doesn’t sound angry or irritated; she just sounds confused. “Do you think that solved anything?”
    â€œI don’t know what to do,” I say. “I say that society’s beauty standards are killing young girls, but I don’t have a solution to that. Any beauty ideal we create will be exclusive, almost by definition. And the concept of beauty itself wouldn’t withstand an all-encompassing tact. If everyone is beautiful, then nothing is. It’s so frustrating. I punched her hard, and she went down, but I have no idea who she is. I can’t find out anything about her, can I? She was just some stranger in the mall. What if she’s done nothing to deserve it? What if she’s the nicest girl you’ve ever met?”
    â€œYou can’t do anything to fix it,” Mrs. Hubert says. “All you can really do is learn from your mistakes. Anger doesn’t solve anything,” she says.
    â€œI don’t know if I believe that,” I say. “We can’t just push our anger down.”
    â€œAre you the boy who keeps calling here?” she says, and I hang up. It hasn’t helped.
    Richard’s standing in the doorway when I turn around, and it’s clear from his face that he’s heard the whole thing. He looks like he wants to say something. I smile as best I can and say, “The best way to approach someone with a difficult new concept is to couch that concept in a discourse pattern that they’re already familiar with. In this case I chose the motherly paradigm. In order to open her mind to issues of personal responsibility and gender-role confusion, I approached her as a troubled son might, looking for answers from his mother.”
    He’s still making the face, and I cut him off before he speaks. “I won’t use your phone for it anymore,” I say. “That was irresponsible of me. Goodnight.” I turn off the light and roll over to face the window. The moon is out, and for a while I can hear him breathing behind me. I don’t notice when it stops, but I am suddenly aware that it’s much quieter, and when I turn to look again he’s gone.
    I realize I’m dreaming when the elephant turns her head to look at me, and she lifts her trunk and words flow out like music. No flyers please, no flyers please, no flyers please. And suddenly I’m floating in the air above the street, and I can see a long line of elephants, words coming out of their mouths in speech balloons.
    No parking, no flyers please, absolutely no loitering, wash your hands, wash your hands. I can’t hear the words, only read them, but I cover my ears anyway, and then Alex is floating beside me, naked, but her breasts are made of something wrong. I look closer and they’re maggots, shaping her breasts, and now they crawl down