Lisa Thornton
She zips your dress and says He’s cute, huh? You remember lying in the grass all those times when you spent the night at her house, out back where no one could see, her hair and yours tangled together.
Her eyes meet yours in the mirror. Soon you’ll both be at the prom, boys on your arms. You want to reach behind you and touch her cheek. But she pulls away now, lately. Casts her eyes down when you bring up the grass.
Sometimes you wish there was no god. Sometimes you wish she was dead and then regret it so much you vomit, hands gripping cold white ceramic.
Once, her mother took you to Mass with her and her little brother on a Saturday morning after you both woke up with matted hair and that secret in your mouths and the priest waved his thumb in front of your forehead and placed a dry cracker on your tongue. It didn’t taste as good as she did. You don’t understand why she chose it.
Lisa Thornton is a writer and nurse. She has stories in SmokeLong Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, and other magazines. She has been nominated for Best of the Net, the Pushcart Prize, and Best Small Fictions. She lives in Illinois.
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