I heard something yesterday that sparked a memory.
Standing in the doctor’s office, waiting for my mom to get back from her usual check-up, I overheard this pre-teen girl talking with her brother.
She was all, “Ugh, I can’t believe you’re dating such a whore,” and he was like, “Bitch, seriously, leave me alone. She’s only done stuff with, like, seven guys."
“The seven dwarves,” commented the girl.
But their conversation reminded me of those back in school. Back in the hallways. The girls used to make faces when Mandy passed, like they were constantly sucking on a lemon, noses scrunched, lips pursed, showing off bright pink flesh.
Whispers of slut or drug mule or fuck-up.
Then, I was watching you, in your bathroom after supper, hair tied back, head over the toilet bowl, and I began to wonder what they whispered to you.
Remember, spoken words shouldn’t hurt, Serenity.
It’s the written ones that count.
