Macey says she’s Batgirl, the wisest, the boss of our pack. None of us question this because Macey can shrink you with a look, scrunch you into a ball of paper and toss you in the trash like she did to Ella Wiseman. Ella sits in front of Miss and puts her hand up so often we call her the Fuhrer, but nobody cares if you are smart because Macey made her invisible.
Macey and I were born in the same hospital, besties since birth. Macey’s mom hung out with mine before they hooked up with our dads and Macey says Some friends go so far back, they’re family, though I can’t imagine Macey’s manicured toes under our table. She wouldn’t unsee Mom’s grey roots, my brother’s awkward chewing as he tries not to let food catch in his braces. Macey wants to be an influencer when she’s older but Mom thinks we should be whoever we like, as long as we’re still kind.
That makes me think of Ella Wiseman again, how Macey crushed her faster than a can in a dumpster. Ella is the only person I ever met who didn’t want to bathe in Macey’s light so I guess that is why she got left in the shadows. Macey talks a lot of bull and I’ve spent my whole life nodding like a dashboard dog or chasing my own tail to please her, even though I know Macey takes things too far, that she feeds on the pack, that she’d chew up anyone who dared to challenge her and spit them out like meat.
At recess, I ask Ella if the empty chairs either side of her are free, slip into the space she creates in her pause and lower myself in, without waiting for the splash.
Good one
ReplyDelete