First Pages From The Private Life Of Estelle Knight

Vaseline The thick layer of jelly melts off my teeth and settles on my tongue like barely dried Elmer's glue. So bitter. Sticky. And useless. Either Gina gave me an expired jar or I put on way too much. I cannot make a screwed up face showing my disgust. I wonder if anyone else on the carpet is having the same problem. Struggling to maintain my smile and posture, I look to my left and then to my right but I see nothing but beautiful girls twirling around effortlessly like those porcelain ballerinas in musical boxes. The Los Angeles sun scorches my skin, and the bright eight-foot-tall lights glaring down on me only make the temperature on my blushed cheeks rise. And growing up I thought the Mississippi humidity was the worst kind of heat. I thought wrong. But I can't make a face showing my near heat exhaustion either. The Vaseline slime travels to the back of my throat. I need to spit. But I can't. So gross. I curl my lips up into a smile, hoping that will distract myself from the...