From Vanessa's Theories June 15
June 15
8 a.m.
Marianne's house. There are no grease stains or fingerprints on the sparkling appliances, no crumbs anywhere, even though we are cooking, only what we need is out. I stare at Marianne and then at my ghost boyfriend. I feel my cheeks burn…
"Are you okay?" Marianne asks. "Do you have a headache?"
She hands me a pack of peas from the refrigerator as if this will cure the inflammation in my brain. Maybe we both imagine I talk to my ghost boyfriend and my head throbs from typical reasons, stress, a period, staying up too late. She chats about the guestlist for the party like I'm one of those kinds of girls.
"I've invited the Roberts' too," Marianne says, "even though they are technically outside of the neighborhood. Isn't Gitt Roberts one of your oldest friends?" Marianne says it the same way she talks about leaving the house at midnight to run to the store for milk and eggs because she's decided to bake. Someone needs a cake, or she plans to cheat on Keto. It doesn't matter the reason. I make up many. She bakes a pineapple cake for Don next door, and I smell it for days in the kitchen. And this incredible cake should go over to the neighbor's house, it should be eaten by someone, but it sits in our fridge. It's edible art, I know not to eat.
I wish she'd freeze those pieces of the brilliant yellow stuff that makes me crazy to look at but not touch for weeks for those times when she's baking just to eat. And I wish she wouldn't go out in the middle of the night because I'm tired and don't want to be alone. It's the same way she's got it wrong about Gitt and me being friends, she's a Wave girl, prom queen from high school I hardly know.
"You feel hot," she says, "and we are out of milk and eggs."
I ask Beast, "Have I told you about Gitt?"
Besides Marianne and me, Gitt Roberts is juicy gossip I know.
Imagine available on Amazon
Other titles by LA Wolfe
8 a.m.
Marianne's house. There are no grease stains or fingerprints on the sparkling appliances, no crumbs anywhere, even though we are cooking, only what we need is out. I stare at Marianne and then at my ghost boyfriend. I feel my cheeks burn…
"Are you okay?" Marianne asks. "Do you have a headache?"
She hands me a pack of peas from the refrigerator as if this will cure the inflammation in my brain. Maybe we both imagine I talk to my ghost boyfriend and my head throbs from typical reasons, stress, a period, staying up too late. She chats about the guestlist for the party like I'm one of those kinds of girls.
"I've invited the Roberts' too," Marianne says, "even though they are technically outside of the neighborhood. Isn't Gitt Roberts one of your oldest friends?" Marianne says it the same way she talks about leaving the house at midnight to run to the store for milk and eggs because she's decided to bake. Someone needs a cake, or she plans to cheat on Keto. It doesn't matter the reason. I make up many. She bakes a pineapple cake for Don next door, and I smell it for days in the kitchen. And this incredible cake should go over to the neighbor's house, it should be eaten by someone, but it sits in our fridge. It's edible art, I know not to eat.
I wish she'd freeze those pieces of the brilliant yellow stuff that makes me crazy to look at but not touch for weeks for those times when she's baking just to eat. And I wish she wouldn't go out in the middle of the night because I'm tired and don't want to be alone. It's the same way she's got it wrong about Gitt and me being friends, she's a Wave girl, prom queen from high school I hardly know.
"You feel hot," she says, "and we are out of milk and eggs."
I ask Beast, "Have I told you about Gitt?"
Besides Marianne and me, Gitt Roberts is juicy gossip I know.
Imagine available on Amazon
Other titles by LA Wolfe
Comments
Post a Comment