Getting to Maylee’s going-away party at all was a thing. My cousin Jaxson and I took a state highway into the country and turned onto a small road, then a smaller road, then one that rattled my teeth and wasn’t even paved. I didn’t complain. …
“It’s a meat market, Amber.”
My roommate’s face in the mirror looks a little hurt, because I’m complaining about church.
I’m in her room, tying one of my gym shoes, while she adds a little more curl to her long hair. I have a date with a treadmill. …
On my break I strolled around the block, admiring the trees which lined the streets. They had burst into pinks and whites over the weekend, making downtown smell like spring. They must be especially stalwart trees, I thought, to bloom so abundantly amid the concrete, asphalt, and exhaust fumes. …
Henry! Come up to dinner! Lights out on your way.” Mom was always going on about the electric bill.
“Two minutes, Mom.” I crossed out what I had just written and tried again.
I watched you wipe a tear away
And smile, when“Wipe” was wrong. And “watched” and “when.”…
I’m with my critique group in someone’s back yard. They’ve read a draft of my latest short story this week, and it’s time for critiques. They won’t be cruel. They’ll praise what they like but pull no punches. I need them not pulling punches. We’re trying to become better writers.
…
Dublin, c. 2055.
Grandpa’s antique accordion wheezed gently. Its bellows breathed the cool, damp Irish air for the first reedy notes of my song. Grandpa was long dead, but his polished instrument came alive in my hands, as always. …
What I wanted to say was, “I’m a football player, not a popsicle.” What I said was, “This is what you want us to wear to the Homecoming dance?”
School had been out for half an hour, when Haylee pulled me into a short, dead-end hallway to talk about formal…
I can be invisible.
No, really. I have proof. We’ll get to that.
I can see myself in the mirror, and other people can see me if they want. You probably could if you wanted to. So I don’t think my invisibility is supernatural. …
Last Thursday night, I dreamed that you died.
I don’t know you. You don’t know me — and now you probably don’t want to.
But you’re wondering, how did I know it was you?
I know you died because everybody died. …
