Her down blanket weighs heavy on her fetal body curling and recurling. First on the bed, then the phone rings, she walks to it but doesn’t answer. Then on the couch, in the corner, near the door. Her bangs, parted so deep to the side are the way she likes them, shading her face, casting shadows, singing airy minor chords, one eye peeking poking from the puffy hems of her down comforter.
Her brother’s in jail again. You see, Dickerson’s like the Cinderella of prisons. Sarah says it’s not like the movies. Not rat-infested, cat-calling through the bars, cockroach-in-the-oatmeal, chained-ankle bad. It’s just a holding tank for the ones they don’t want mixing it up with society quite yet. But before his court date, when they moved him to Wayne County, Andrew became a saint among the masses. And scared.
I say, Linny, it sure is crap on a stick shoved in the mud pit at camp. Andrew’s about to bust into some craxy tears oves all this shizz, she told me.
It was then that I knew she wasn’t handling it well.
She can hide her limber body in that snow white down until the last day Andrew snorts a line, until he assaults his final policed officer, and it won’t ever be the shell she wants it to be. Leaving her bangs long and out of the stubby ponytail they can collect into won’t hide her face forever behind lyrics of rescue and redemption in E flat minor. Her plastic sword of abbreviations and casual riverwords, casual casual, it splinters and splits as she clash clashes it against prison bars.