My hair is purple and covers one eye so that the Gibson full of mites isn’t a sham. “You look just like your mother when you were that age! But you have your father’s nose.” I wish that wasn’t true. The blob on the bridge makes me look like a harpy.
When we’re fourteen John tells me to take photos with his dollar store cigarettes. They are made of sugar and I hold it in between my middle and ring finger. His sister sees the photos on his Myspace page matched with Panic! at the Disco lyrics and says I look like a cretin.
There is a clamor in the attic and my brother tells me that bats use it as a lair. I paint my face white and nick my gums with plastic fangs. During the night, I only read Dracula – I want to be their queen. To them, my sunburn is lethal, but he wonders why I am such a clod.
I throw the roll of toilet paper over the stunted tree branch. Hushed cackles awaken the neighbors and flood the yard with light. The getaway vehicle idles on the curb and we run pell mell away with the echo of shouts, “You don’t belong here!” as the stereo plays “Creep.”