Anita Rose, Part I

I anticipate this being a three-part story, but that very well may change as the ideas come. Enjoy. :)

Anita Rose
by Jill C.

I am fifteen, and I don't like to wear glasses. I don't like them to be over my eyes. They work much better as a headband to keep my coarse black curls away from my face. Momma Betty says that after she paid for those lovely glasses to be made, I may as well wear them and be able to see. The truth is that she didn't pay for them. The government did. And the glasses aren't lovely. I had only three choices of black wire frames from the medicaid collection.

I don't like to wear glasses. I like to see everything through blurred eyes. Because then I don't have to see myself. Nothing I do will ever be enough. I will always find a new flaw to obsess over. When my thighs stopped jiggling when I walked, I had moved on to hating my upper arms. When they flattened down to bone, I had decided that my sternum was not prominent enough on my exposed chest. At least without my glasses, it was all the same. My body looked like a tan blur; all detail gone.

I don't like wearing my glasses when I look at other people. If we all exist in blurs, then I don't feel as compelled to compare myself to them.

The door slammed behind me and I heard bare feet scrambling down the porch steps.

"Anita, here," a reflective brown object grasped in a pale hand appeared an inch from my nose. I looked up into the blurry white face to which the hand belonged. Dylan, of course. I could recognize that shock of red hair anywhere.

"Take it, 'Nita," he prompted, shoving what I now recognized as a Twix bar further into my face. I took the candy from his clammy grip, and he took it as a cue to sit down beside me. "Momma Betty said she's coming, remember?" Dylan went on, not stopping for breath, "And she got lots of candies and stuff, you know, to celebrate."

Dylan began tearing at his own candy wrapper with his teeth. He took an enormous bite of the chocolate, then continued around the wad of food, "Are you excited to have a sister, finally? I'm not, but Momma Betty said you probably would. I don't know why she thinks girls want to hang out with girls; you do just fine with all of us."

I remained silent. That wasn't entirely true. I suppose on the outside I got along well enough with my foster brothers, but I was so rooted in myself, in my obsession, that I was usually the only thing I could see.

Dylan chattered on and on. I took my glasses off my head and polished them on my shirt before replacing them on top of my rough curls. The screen door slammed against the frame again and Momma Betty's heavy sneaker-clad footsteps eased up behind us, followed by the quiet patter of Jared and Sam.

Dylan turned immediately to his brothers, were carrying the unmistakable crunch of a bag of chips. I turned to watch their wavy outlines as the three nine year olds squatted around the bag, trying to divide their spoils evenly. They were like triplets, yet so different. One black, one blond, and one freckly redhead joined in brotherhood. They'd all been with Momma Betty so long that they had probably forgotten that they were fosters and not real brothers.

"You want some, 'Nita?" Sam called out to me. I smiled as he tossed his too-long blond hair out of his dark eyes. I shook my head. Momma Betty eased her bulk onto the wooden step next to me. I slid my glasses down onto my nose, but I didn't look at her. I knew what was coming.

"You gotta eat, Anita baby," Momma Betty crooned as she took the Twix out of my lap, "It's gonna be all melted if you don't eat it now." She peeled back the shiny brown plastic around the chocolate and wrapped my hand around it, like she was giving a toddler a banana. I looked down at the chocolate in my hand. There were indentations all down the bar where Dylan's hands had squished it. It was revolting. I couldn't eat this, even if had wanted to.

A shrill ring sounded through the screen door. "God, what now?" Momma Betty muttered as she heaved her large self off the step. The door slammed, and the phone continued to ring. I stared back down at the candy in my hand as Momma Betty's muffled conversation floated out the door and down the steps to my ears.

Suddenly, Momma Betty was yelling, "Cleavland! Get up!" Groans and mumbles came from inside the house. "Turn off that Goddamn television; she's gonna be here in five minutes. Get out on that porch with your children to wait." The couch springs groaned as Cleavland stood up. "Don't you take that beer can with you!" Momma Betty shrieked. A loud clunk as the can was tossed into the sink, and then the screen door opened and Cleavland came out.

Cleavland smelled bad. Like cigarettes and beer, with a hint of sweat behind it all. He worked nights at the frozen food warehouse, and he only slept and watched television when he was home. He never would have said it out loud, but it was clear that he felt that the foster children were his wife's idea and therefore his wife's job.

Momma Betty reappeared on the porch, wiping her hands on the rear of her long yellow skirt. "Aren't you excited, Cleavland?" she asked, "you're going to have another daughter in,"--she checked her watch--,"three minutes."

"Mmmm," Cleavland said.

We sat in anticipation. The boys, having finished their snack, were now wiping their Dorito covered fingers on each other's clothes. I wanted to take off my glasses, but Momma Betty was watching, so I just closed my eyes.

Then the sound of a diesel truck rounding the corner roused us all from our daydreaming. The familiar white pickup that had delivered all of us from the children's home to Momma Betty's pulled up into our gravely driveway. The roar of the engine stopped, and the polished blond social worker got out of the driver's seat. Her hair was so gelled to perfection that it didn't bounce when she walked. Momma Betty hugged her, then followed the social worker to the door to the backseat of the car. The boys and Cleavland dutifully followed a few feet behind the women. Only I stayed put. I shoved my glasses up onto my head. I didn't want to see this. I didn't need a little perfect pink girl with a perfect pink body in my life.

The car door slammed, and the chattering crowd of my family passed me as they trooped up the steps into the house. With everyone talking at once, I heard nothing comprehensible except for, "Rosie." That must be her. She even had a perfect pink name. I shut my eyes again, trying to get one more layer of separation between me and Rosie.

"Who're you." It wasn't even a question. No raised melodic note at the end to show for it. The voice was high, but hard, as if daring me to answer.

I opened my eyes. An enormous blob stood in front of me. I blinked, and the fuzzy outline of a face materialized. I reached for my glasses, hardly believing what was happening. Momma Betty had said that she was six years old. I had imagined a little thing with toothpick legs and unisex children's shorts sliding down a flat behind. But the person--the thing--in front of me clutching the pink plastic backpack had to weigh over a hundred pounds.

The white polo shirt stretched over the bulbous stomach made it--her--look like a beach ball. I forced myself to look into her face, to find familiarity there. But even her dull grey eyes seemed sunken behind the fat of her cheeks. Only the long dirty blond hair falling down her back made her seem human.

She knew I was staring. She was staring back, her eyes lingering on the protuberance of my collar bone. Then her gaze fell on the melting candy in my hand. A glint formed in her eyes.

"Are you going to eat that." Still not a question. I shook my head.
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FYI, even though I've had experience with much of what I write about, eating disorders are NOT something that I've seen firsthand. I am enjoying sourdough pretzels as I write this...

Phonographics (that is to say, sound)

Phonographics
by Jill C.

I take the proffered goblet
raise it to my lips
inhale deeply, the scent more pervasive than the taste
A miniscule sip enters my pursed lips
Not the blood of Christ, by any means
Not pure, not sweet
Earthy
spicy
dusty with emulsified age
repugnant
Not actually repugnant
repugnant
it tastes like the word repugnant
magestic
raisained
weathered
Lips pursed to utter the re
then puffed into a kiss for pug
tongue quietly clicking around the flavor for nant

I drive past the overflowing parking lot
a flash of bright yellow catches my eye
Subway hotrod
not actually a hotrod
an old pickup truck
with bulbous fenders
and invasive side mirrors
the name of the sandwich shop emblazened on the side
Subway hotrod
the almost-rhyme of the second term
embodies the frivolity of the stoic vehicle
like a drag queen
sticking out like none other
but proud to be
Subway hotrod

The sound doesn't always have to be the meaning
The words don't have to be read
Just spoken
Just heard
and misunderstood
to the point that repugnant means a taste
hotrod a concept
and Cellar Door beauty
The Phonographics are individual
ecstatic, yet elastic
made to be played with
to represent anything
in the eye
or ear
of anyone
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Ten bonus points if you can catch the Donnie Darko reference. :)