Evie Shockley

The way she read reminded me of the feeling I get when I try really hard to listen to the sound of rain. It was calming and rhythmic, and stereotypical in the sense that she was whispering the whole time. What I ended up liking was the shock value. Her content was getting a little dull after a few minutes of her Cinderella story and then she started spewing the most inappropriate phrases! I was taken aback – I didn’t not expect those sentences to come from her mouth! And they were funny- more or less.

Bear Gets Knifed

Bear was walking home from the gym in pain. She had a slight limp from the blister on the balls of her feet and she was suffering. She rounded the corner to her spider infested suburban house, exhausted and terribly overheated. She touched her hand to the doorknob. It was locked. Fuck, she thought. She could envision her house keys lying on the couch cushion right behind the door. She was locked out and her roommate wouldn’t be home for another two and a half hours. Bear did the only thing she knew; she used the keypad on her car door and unlocked the trunk. It had an open trunk so if she put the back seats down she could stretch out and take a nap until her roommate rescued her. And that’s what she did, but she had to keep the trunk wide open or the car would heat up beyond a reasonable temperature.

She awoke suddenly to an unfamiliar voice. “Hey Pappi!” the heavy Spanish voice said, “h’what are you doing in de trunk?” Bear sat up, disoriented and afraid. “H’oh my gad,” the voice laughed, “Is’a girl. What you doing in de car, chica?” Bear instinctively tried to grab the leather strap to close the trunk door from the inside but her reflexes were slow from just waking up. Her heart beat so hard in her chest it hurt. Meanwhile, the Spaniard came closer to her car in a serpentine fashion, she couldn’t figure out what direction he meant to come at her from. What time is it, she thought, why isn’t my roommate back yet?

Bear had just grabbed the leather strap but the strength she needed to pull the door closed was worked out of her hours before, damn that fucking class, and she fell out of the trunk. “Was’a matta, chica” the voice said, now considerably closer to Bear. She was nervous and scared; she’d never fought before. Bear stood up; she was wired and every neuron was firing. She could see everything so clearly. The sun was setting, the neighbors windows were open, people were swimming in the nearby pool, the Spaniard was definitely moving close, too close, and his tattoos covered his neck and arms. The night was warm but the breeze was cold. Bear shivered, she saw the Spaniard brandish a dull switchblade.

“I like yo car, chica,” he said, waving the tip of the blade towards her face. He cocked his head as if he were looking through a sniper-scope and continued to wave his knife in Bear’s face. Without warning, the Spaniard lunged at Bear and jabbed the knife into her side, splintering between two ribs and perforating her right lung. Bear didn’t begin to gasp for another few seconds before she dropped to the floor. She felt so tired all of a sudden. Grow up in Harlem and die in a fucking suburb, she thought as she saw the distant footsteps of her roommate rounding the corner. She had a bewildered face as she was nearly side-swiped by a car nearly identical to her roommate’s car, except that there was a man driving this one.

Bite 'Em Down

When I was a little girl I used to bite my nails. I used to bite them hardcore. I never half-assed homework assignments and I never half-assed biting my nails. It was all too common that I’d wake up with blood on my pillow or face from my bleeding nail beds. I couldn’t open plastic wrapped items such as DVD’s or Snapple bottles and I certainly couldn’t handle citrus fruit, no matter how much I loved to lick lemons. Sometimes my jagged edged tips would catch on a piece of fabric and rip through my cuticle, causing me to collapse to the ground. Despite the bewildering pain shooting from my fingertips through my hand and half way up my arm, my fingers would be back in my mouth dancing the tango with my incisors.

I bit my nails so much I etched notches in my front teeth and my mom said that if I didn’t stop biting my nails my front teeth would look like little carpenters saw’s and my beautiful smile would be ruined. I’d be chipping away while listening, holding my neck in a painful and awkward position to get the best piece of keratin to rip from my digits. The feeling of relief when that bit of nail would rip off was like ecstasy. I could breathe easier.

I remember the day I stopped. Someone called me unattractive. I was devastated. I decided I was going to stop but not before I bit my nails the shortest they had ever been. I wore ten band aids on my fingers for a week after that. My brother had come home from college with his girlfriend and I couldn’t wait to tell him the good news. “Look!” I said, “Look how long my nails are!” My brother looked at my hands, “Its about damned time you quit that filthy habit.” I knew how he meant it but it was not the response I was looking for. His girlfriend saved him by piping in. “Oh, really?” she asked excitedly. “My sisters and I used to bit out nails when we were kids. When did you stop biting?” She had a hold of my hands when I said excitedly, “two weeks!” “Oh,” she said. Why was no one impressed!

Cut to six years later and I am a reformed nail biter; ninety-nine percent of the time. “Mom,” I say in a heavy voice. “Look what I did.” My eyes were still red and raw from crying and my words still held the remnants of a whimper. My breath was labored and my saliva was thick, causing me to swallow hard.

My mom looked at my hands and crooned. “Oh, honey.” She took my hands and shone more light on them. “What did you do, you’re nails were healthy and long.”

“Habits die hard,” I choked. “But I don’t remember biting being this painful.” I shut my eyes.

Vomit Hair and Failure

I hear my answering machine beep as I walk in through my front door. It’s late and I’m exhausted. I contemplate ignoring the message so I can take a nice, hot bath and remove the smell of dog vomit from my hair; a perk of not getting into veterinary school. I stiffen as I get a second round of vomit smell as I remove my ponytail, letting my hair fall to my face. I stare at the machine. It’s only one message, so I play it.

“Hey, we’ve done something terribly wrong and need your help. We can’t talk about it over the phone. Please meet us at the spot where we made our pact back in high school. You know the place.” Beep.

“I wish I hadn’t played that,” I say out loud. Nervously, I grab my coat, again, and car keys and walk out the door.

Ladmer had made herself scarce the past two weeks, and was that Benson in the background? It’s raining so I drive slowly. They got themselves into trouble; they could wait another five minutes. Besides, my parent’s house was a few blocks away; they could have walked here all on their own…like adults.

I pull into my driveway. My car now smells faintly of Chester, the worlds dumbest-overweight-chocolate-eating golden retriever. Awesome.

I step out of the car and take a long drag of cold air; it burns. I shuffle to my old front door and ring the bell; I’m not as agile as I was back in high school so I’m not going to scale my own damn fence. And if Ladmer and Benson think I’m going to climb that cicada infested death trap then they’re sadly mistaken. It’s nearly eleven and I just worked a 12 hour shift. They can-

My mother answers the door, “Oh hi honey!”

“Hi mom,” I said while being hugged, and suffocated by my mother’s curls.

“What are you doing here?”

I don’t say anything.

“Oh, one of those days huh?” She says, raising an eyebrow. “They’re out back aren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get a pot of coffee up. And tell those girls not to track mud into the house. They’re not sixteen anymore and I ain’t funny,” she says as her words trail into the kitchen.

I walk to the sliding glass doors, twist open the lock and pull on the door. It won’t budge. I nearly lose my head before I see a two foot stick on the track – that’s world class home security, Long Island style.

I step outside and click the patio light. Nothing, not even a flicker. I wish I was taking my bath. If this turns out to be anything like the “emergency” where Benson got silly putty stuck in her hair or the time when Ladmer decided to become a gymnast and jump out of my window onto a makeshift trampoline, then I’m out of here. What is wrong with this damn light?!

I punch the switch in last effort and then BAM! There is screaming, so much screaming and big movie-set lights shining directly on me. I can’t see who is in front of me and can’t tell who is touching my ass but he’s about to lose a finger.

“Ouch!” someone yells. No more overzealous toucher, but I still can’t see.

More lights shine over the backyard and I can see all my old friends and some family members (who know better) jumping over my mother’s makeshift vegetable garden. My mom is behind me, hold a cake shaped like a dog with a bandage around its legs.

“HAPPY NOT GETTING INTO VET SCHOOL!” was shouted, then strobe lights began…doing what strobe lights do. Music was blasting and Ladmer ran over to give me a beer.

She looks at me as I take a swig and says, “And you said we couldn’t celebrate failure.”

Sterile

They come in sterile white boxes

50 pairs of dental examination gloves

They smell sour and rotten

They are the same off-white latex gloves that my dad has worn for years

Fine powder rises up in a mist when he snaps them against his hand

They are smooth against one another, like rubbing two pieces of satin

But they leave rough, cracked cuticles in their wake

I chewed one once; they’re tasteless. The only flavor is that of your hand

They’re fun to blow up but the sound when they burst is alarming. It always makes my heart race

I blow them up anyway. I like to bounce them on my finger tips like birthday balloons

Their stretch has a limit – too often I have slapped my skin with ricocheting rubber

They pull at your lips before they are wetted

Then they slip over your teeth and gums like a blade over ice

Sonnet

The salmon girl had slanting eyes,

And a projection for a nose:

But still she was hot to all the guys,

Or so the story goes:

In Sunday mass she'd strike a toke,

And then she'd get really dumb:

Always the butt of a funny joke,

And always leaving crumbs:

But if you ask, "what girl is this?"

For this I have no answer,

She shakes around her dwarfish fist:

And sticks around like cancer,

But what is this bully to do

When all she has to tease, is you.

I chose the Shakespearean sonnet because I like the flow and beat of it. I don't know how it complements the image or idea; I guess it is all encompassing. I didn't stray from the form, I kept the ababcdcdefefgg format.

Speaker

I came with certain expectations of "The Green Manifesto" that David Gessner did not live up to. I thought his book was going to be technical and informative... like a manifesto. It did not resonate with me. I had a lot on my mind and didn't pay too close attention. Not to mention it was 8 o'clock at night on a Monday - that's not the most conducive environment. That mean's that there are only two types of audience members, those that chose to be there and those that are required to be there.

That said, I most likely won't read his book. I like fiction novels or Biographical A-Day-In-The-Life books about Veterinarians or Animal Medicine.

Where the Sidewalk Ends (Shel Silverstein)

When I was a little kid, my grandma gave me copies of "Where the Sidewalk Ends" and "A Light in the Attic" and "Falling Up" for Hanukkah. I'd have my mother read the poems to me before bed. Sometimes I'd have her read the same poem over and over again until she'd fall asleep with the book open in her hands. I don't know what it is about his poems that I enjoyed (and still enjoy) so much. Maybe it is the fact they are short and easy to read, and they're fun and nonsensical. Even now, childhood memories aside, I seem to gravitate to his books and try to write in his tone of voice.

"Hug O'War" by Shel Silverstein

I will not play at tug o’war.

I’d rather play at hug o’war,

Where everyone hugs

Instead of tugs,

Where everyone giggles

And rolls on the rug,

Where everyone kisses,

And everyone grins,

And everyone cuddles,

And everyone wins.

...Even when I'm upset and need to vent my frustration.

My Reply

I will never step foot in hug o’war.

I’d rather play at tug o’war,

Where everyone suffers

Instead of buffers,

Where everyone bleeds

And rolls on their lovers,

Where everyone screams,

And everyone cries,

And everyone withers,

And everyone dies.

Here to Serve

Hey You! You standing there

Wont you sit down in this chair?

Can't you sit down for a while?

I see you want to from that smile

Face flushed and grinning wide

Follow me. Come on inside.

What's that now? Don't turn away!

Won't you hear what I have to say?!

Take off your coat, keep off those feet-

Here, let me help you find a seat?

See now? Isn't this nice?

Perhaps some hot tea will suffice

Stay right there- I'll grab a pot

Be careful though, the kettle's hot

Excuse me? What was that?

To you, I shouldn't turn my back?

My dear sir, I'm so confused

You wonder if the soup is used?

I beg your pardon, I'd never serve--

How dare you Sir! You've got some nerve.

I'll answer your questions; however vague

And I doubt that you'll contract the plague

But once I do, I've had enough

And may ask you to grab your stuff

So Sir. If you must know

Here are your answers before I go

Perhaps you will fall the down the stairs

Maybe you will get caught unawares

There's always a chance you'll lose some cash

Sir please! I cannot ID that rash!

Now that I must avert my eyes

I ask you to replace your guise

Maybe you will inherit diamond rings

But Sir- how am I to know these things?

I'll bring you a menu and a beer

For I am just a waitress here.

Read This Over

Original:

“Read it one more time,” my mother said. It was 12:40 at night, we spent all day in my parents made bed with papers and folders covering the new duvet cover, and we were exhausted. No one should spend all day rereading the same two pages of an online application, even if it is for Veterinary School. I had already lost a page of text because my mother had accidentally unplugged my charger and my computer died before I could save it. It took me an hour to plug in all of my coursework, again. I was ready to murder her as she made me reread my work for the hundredth time.

“Sydney, if you don’t want to go to vet school that’s fine with me,” she said as she puckered her lips and waved a pointed finger at my face, “I know what it takes to apply to these professional programs. So, you better stop interrupting when I speak or you can do this on your own!” She was yelling now and I was crying angry, fat tears.

“Fine!” I said loudly, surprised by my own volume, “but I’m going to sleep after this page.”

“Fine,” my mom responded, passive aggressively.

There was a moment of silence. “Can you read it over?” I asked cautiously, “My eyes are killing me.”

She motioned for my laptop. When I placed it in her lap, she looked at the screen and immediately started squinting; she scrunched her nose which lifted her upper lip and bared her front teeth. “Make it larger, I can’t read this.”

I increased the screen magnification before I collapsed my upper body onto a nice cool pillow. My eyes burned as I closed them, but in relief. The moment I got really comfortable I heard, “Uh, Sydney. Come here.” My mother had found a mistake.

“Here,” she says as she pulls my computer back into my lap. “What biology course did you take? Do you see why we need to do this? You would have sent that to the schools and they would have laughed your application right into the garbage.” Her tone was full of venom, but not the kind I had a right to be angry at.

“Biology 220, Biology of Living Orgasms.”

I hate when she’s right.

* * * * *

Alternate Version:

“Read it one more time,” my mother says. It’s 12:40 at night, and we had spent all day in my parents made bed with papers and folders covering the new duvet cover, and we are exhausted. No one should spend all day rereading the same two pages of an online application, even if it is for Veterinary School. My mother unplugs my computer charger and the battery dies; I lose a page of text and my begins to twitch. It takes me an hour to plug in all of my coursework, again. I’m ready to murder her as she makes me reread my work for the hundredth time.

“Sydney, if you don’t want to go to vet school that’s fine with me,” she says as she puckers her lips and waves a pointed finger at my face, “I know what it takes to apply to these professional programs. So, you better stop interrupting when I speak or you can do this on your own!” She is yelling now and I am crying angry, fat tears.

“Fine!” I say loudly, and I am surprised by my own volume, “but I’m going to sleep after this page.”

“Fine,” my mom responds, passive aggressively.

There is a moment of silence. “Can you read it over?” I ask cautiously, “My eyes are killing me.”

She motions for my laptop. I place it in her lap and she looks at the screen and immediately starts squinting; she scrunches her nose which lifts her upper lip and bares her front teeth. “Make it larger, I can’t read this.”

I increase the screen magnification before I collapse my upper body onto a nice cool pillow. My eyes burn as I closed them, but in relief. Just as I get comfortable, I hear, “Uh, Sydney. Come here.” My mother has found a mistake.

“Here,” she says as she pulls my computer back into my lap. “What biology course did you take? Do you see why we need to do this? You would have sent that to the schools and they would have laughed your application right into the garbage.” Her tone is full of venom, but not the kind I have a right to be angry at.

“Biology 220, Biology of Living Orgasms.”

I hate when she’s right.

_______________________

I will keep the original version because having to change the tense forced me to alter sentences and rethink ideas. I already have trouble to sticking to a single tense and this just made it awkward and made me feel frustrated.

It also reminded me of Taylor Mali and his proofreading sketch.

"She is going to be fat when she grows up, just like her mammy." -Tayari Jones

I walked into the Foster auditorium expecting failure. My assumption was reassured by the astounding four people in the 100 person capacity room. I watched as the man in the green shirt set up two collapsible tables in the front of the room while I contemplated how I’d sleep in my hands.

The man in the green shirt began unpacking books and then sat down with a credit card imprint machine. This was looking more and more like a waste of my time. Then the first girl started to do the tapping on the mic “Testing. Testing. Is this thing on” spiel and I tried to think about reasons that this girl should be so damned nervous. There are seven of us in the room, and two of them are sleeping!

Then Tayari walked up to the microphone. I didn’t like her voice at first. She was too whispery and the whole thing felt too erudite to me. Oh ex-cuse me Margareet, I seem to have left my tweed in the motor car (fiddles with mustache).

I don’t remember when I stopped coloring in the boxes of the day’s crossword. I don’t remember when she stopped reading; I didn't snap back to reality until I heard people clap. I was in what my mother likes to call “the zone.” I get there when I watch television and it’s not always a good thing. Sometimes I lose all peripheral vision when I’m in the zone and sometimes I go completely deaf to the outside world; I am completely unresponsive. My roommate hates it, but I can’t help it.

Tayari Jones struck a chord that I really wasn’t expecting. Hell, she got me to buy her book with the money I was saving for groceries. I had to have cereal for dinner when I got back home.

Her dialogue reminded me of home even though her story was set in Atlanta and I am from Brooklyn. In my mind, I could see the girls tapping on their braids and sucking their teeth like how I used to imitate one of my friends. I could smell the oil in their hair and hear them "mm-hmm" and stomp their feet as they laughed at something that was said.

Her book makes want to be back home. And I cant wait to read it.

Forest of Trees

When I was younger I wanted to be an artist. I painted for four years as a young teen and went to an art studio for lessons on focus, depth, shading, and mediums; I preferred acrylics because they were safe. I began to look at the girls painting around me and soon began to hate my pieces. How did they bend the petals like that? How did they get the water to shimmer like that? How did they create a silhouette? I kept asking myself “How do they DO that!?” I was only twelve and expected to be able to recreate magazine photos like the older girls in the group. One day I just quit and ran a black brush across my canvases. Later on, I was told that I was a passive aggressive artist and I never spoke to that person again.

Now, I can all but glare at this piece (above).

Like a child, I'm conflicted. I hate it and still get lost in it. The surrounding trees stand like kings. The trunks of their ancestors, all covered in a thick lustrous emerald, lie at their feet and protect them from the cold ground which they now govern. Their roots wrap gently around the foothills, calling them out and leading the way around them. But they are restless; arcing forward to lead the winding path through the forest and over the hills to a small open meadow of untouched grasses and small fragrant wild flowers. Branches and leaves create a titanic evergreen canopy, both shielding and untrustworthy; beams of light shine against the bark that clings to their trunks and glow gold. They are inviting me to follow them deeper and deeper and to lie on the cool bed of grass for a mid-day slumber under the soft green sky. They fight for my attention, each tree larger, brighter in color, and more silent than the last, and wait patiently to tell the cool and affectionate breeze their secrets. The shades of green that encompass the moss sing without the need of voices as their barely audible sounds tell tales of a lonely peace.

I remember walking though the Museum of Modern Art in New York City and seeing a huge fifty foot canvas hanging from the wall, with all these red velvet ropes around it. I remember walking closer to it to get a glimpse of what could have been so brilliant that there was a need for ropes, only to see that the entire canvas was blank except for a thin barely-there beige line that was painted on one side. I also remember wanting to throw something at it because what was so special. I could do that.

But when I look at this painting, I can only wonder if those trees still stand where they are. Has time finally ravaged them, shifting the surroundings in the most cruelly subtle of ways? Maybe I can imagine them one hundred years from now.

The trees, though still tall, grow weak and hollow as they try to act as they did in their youth. They still arc toward the meadow but the path is now wild and beaten, and made invisible by tall grass and stiff roots. Beams of light still shine against the bark that tries so desperately to cling to the trunks, and not as effortlessly as it had once done, thought they still glow gold. They still invite me to follow them deeper and deeper, although their memory has faded and cannot lead me the whole way. They are still inviting me to slumber under the one thing that has not changed, the soft green sky, though the bed is now cold and hard. The shades of green are now darker and grin at me devilish smile and angled eyes.

I lift up my brush.

Utz Kind of A Funny Story

I sashayed the bag lightly. I never put my hand inside the bag. I could only touch one of the chips at a time and use only my thumb and first finger. I analyzed each individual chip, looking at every square inch. With delicate and rapid licks I licked off all the sour cream flavor, except for the part my fingers covered. I reviewed my work, and then bit off a tiny bit at a time, sometimes taking ten to fifteen nibbles per chip.

I never knew someone was watching me, reporting in to my mother. Mrs. Sperling taught the Alef class at Hebrew School, but that was last year. What is she doing still squirreling away secrets about me to my mother?

“Four bags of chips?” Mom was mad… or worried. Sometimes I couldn’t tell the difference.

Was it four? I don’t remember four… just the chips.

“Sydney! How many bags of chips did you have?”

“I don’t know.” I knew.

Just then my brother walked in. He doesn’t have to go to Hebrew School anymore because he got kicked out and had to get private lessons with the Rabbi. But then the Rabbi mysteriously “let” the Cantor take over because “that was his job.”

“I’m going to start calling you ‘Four Bag Fatso,’” my brother laughed. My mom gave him a light zetz in the arm. He stopped laughing.

“Shut up! I did not eat four bags of chips!” All of a sudden I became very aware of that fourth bag of chips that I stashed in my book bag.

“Sydney,” my mother started again. “You cannot have four bags of chips. Do you hear me?”

“Yes! Can I go up to my room now?” I grabbed my book bag and ran up stairs.

I made sure that my mom and brother were still down stairs. Just the sound of opening the last bag of chips made my mouth water. I curled up in my bed, making sure to hide the bag under my blanket in case one of them walked by.

I sashay the bag lightly. I never put my hand inside the bag. I can only touch one of the chips at a time and use only my thumb and first finger. I analyze each individual chip, looking at every square inch. With delicate and rapid licks I lick off all the sour cream flavor, except for the part my fingers cover. I review my work, and then bite off a tiny bit at a time, sometimes taking ten to fifteen nibbles per chip.

This is why I don't wear flip-flops

You’ve never ridden a train until you’ve been on one in New York City. It’s sweltering hot. You can’t keep your balance because the train car jerks more violently than a bumper car. The man standing next to you can’t keep his hands to himself. You can’t quite identify that smell. You see mice run across someone’s foot. Your arm goes numb and there is nowhere else to hold on. And god-forbid you have an oversized bag with you and you need to get off the train in a hurry. You can’t scream “excuse me” loud enough for people to move. By the time you’re out of the station, you’ve absorbed the mixture of musk and stale perfume to your jacket… and your wallet is missing.

Just when you think you’ve seen the largest rat in the world scurry over your boot, something else catches your eye… and it’s bigger. Whether you’ve lived in the city a day, six years, or your whole life the curiosity is just too much. You go over and investigate. It’s bigger alright, and it’s got a tail! But maybe it’s one of those knitted animal book bags or hats, so you inch closer. It’s dark and under the seat so you bend down to see an opossum breathing at you. Now you’ve identified the smell, but are you happy about it? Was it a rat or did THAT thing really touch your shoe? Just when New York thought it had seen it all, it was the first recorded opossum to ride the D train from Coney Island to Manhattan.

It’s not uncommon to see an occasional raccoon or bird and it is certainly not uncommon to see a rat or two or ten.

General curator of the Bronx Zoo, Patrick Thomas, commented on this tumultuous occasion, “It might have been drawn to the train by heat, or the smell of food.”

In order to remove this wandering marsupial the entire train had to be evacuated and so ensued a 27 minute service delay. Police officers, who soon called for the aid of animal control, eventually shoed the disgruntled opossum from the train with much snarling and baring of teeth by the nomadic critter.

* * * *

This was adapted from the January 18th New York Times article entitled, "Seen It All On Subway? Look Under This Seat," by Michael M. Grynbaum.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/18/nyregion/in-brooklyn-suspicious-passenger-with-a-tail.html

The Skirt from Hell

I hate shopping. I can’t really remember my last shopping trip because I passed out in the dressing room at Macy’s. But not the pretty five-floored Macy’s in New York City where a sales person might rush to get you a bottle of seven dollar water and a cold towel. No, I was semi-conscious in the Kings Plaza Mall in Brooklyn. No one brought me water, and no one helped my mother when she asked for one.

A person can only take so much before getting seriously overheated from the heat lamps they call light bulbs, and depressed when nothing you try on fits! It’s truly unbelievable. Once, an overtly flamboyant male sales associate at a Banana Republic told me that I shouldn’t continue to shop there because I was trying to “match THIS with THAT.” I was twelve…and he snapped at me! Then, there is always the lovely fact that clothing stores barely carry anything above a size six. I was forced to shop at Old Navy until a few years ago when I finally decided that I just didn’t give a shit and I’d fork over the fifty dollars for a pair at the Gap.

With that said, this is where the ethereal and mystical skirt comes in. I was shopping for an outfit for my younger cousins Bar Mitzvah. My mother and I went to Kings Plaza where I was to pass out. Annoyed from my attitude, she dragged me all the way to the Five Towns where all the Lubavitch and Orthodox live. Needless to say there were limited styles and colors to choose from; most of the women and girls wear black and cover their knees and elbows. I was pulled and pushed into four stores, all more sterile than the previous. I was also getting more and more listless, tired, and uninterested which also set my mother off some more and continued this disastrous cycle.

Somehow I had found this spandex-like material skirt that was black (surprise, surprise) and tiered. I was put off because only girls from New Jersey wore tiered anything and I HATED people from Jersey as my experiences from sleep-a-way camp had taught me. Now I’m a reformed Jersey hater, but this was my feeling at the time. Stores were closing for Shabbos so I only made it out with skirt; no shoes and no top.

I wore the skirt to the Bar Mitzvah. I wore the skirt to a birthday party. I wore the skirt to my Lacrosse Team dinner. I wore the skirt to my high school graduation. I wore the skirt to my brother’s college graduation. I wore the skirt to Passover Seder’s. I wore the skirt to a college party. I have now owned the skirt for eleven years. I have tried countless times to get rid of it and much to my dismay, whenever I threw it in the trash; it magically reappeared in my closet. But, then I’d end up wearing it again to another function.

It still hangs in my closet. In fact, I’m glaring at it right now. It’s like Chucky- it just won’t die.