He jokes, I've always been scared
of pretty girls. Then, he looks at me and says, No, not like that, like, high
school pretty. Then, You know what I mean, and I say that I do. I do know
what he means. Because I do.
He means pretty like the way a
high ponytail fits when it falls between two spiky shoulder blades, pretty like
the shadow a mini skirt casts on a pair of legs, pretty like the knees bent and
the elbows straight like a cheerleader's, pretty like a thick ring of black
eyeliner, pretty like when the freckles come out, pretty like two girls in
two-pieces walking towards an ice cream truck in the middle of the day, pretty
like a blue tank top and pink lip gloss, pretty like the hand that wipes it
away, pretty like nail polish with hardly any chips, pretty like vanilla
perfume with glitter in it, pretty like shiny Disney glam, pretty like a
pop-princess prom dress and a flower that matches. And for the first time since
I grew up, I wish I was pretty like that. Just to scare the fuck out of him.
Cara Dempsey
Ways of Going Home
Alejandro Zambra