Her hair looks soft, you imagine running your fingers through it, wonder how it would feel tickling your neck, your eyes, your chest. Instead, you ask what brand of shampoo and conditioner she uses. You know how to walk this tightrope. You’ve seen other people be afraid of falling. You've seen others cut the safety net.

Mom’s friend is the first to give you an up and down look and say, with a snakey tilt to the corner of their lips, “my, you’ll have to beat the boys off of her with a stick.” While your mother leads her in from the front porch. You wonder why you can't just beat them off yourself, you wonder why exclusively, only the boys chase, and only the boys get beaten. You get tired of listening to everyone ask if you have a boyfriend. It runs like a scratched record, old and worn out and eventually white noise. You like this song; you just want a different version.

You’re stressed out because there’s this one equation, if you tweak it, where the sum of all its parts won’t equal out for the perfect all-American, nuclear family. Sometimes tv makes you nauseous. It never narrates all of you as you are. The word tastes like ash in your mouth.

Your friends think it will be fun, Douglas shouts that he’ll count to sixteen. Everyone runs and finds elaborate places to sneak under, or hole up in. They’re all holding red plastic cups as they go, leaping and crawling in a way that won't spill the drink. You squeeze into the closet and shuffle between coats and hoodies, foot the only thing out in the open. This is dumb, why didn’t anyone think to hide here, right? This is a good spot, right?

Ya, it’s too good of a spot; it takes them fifteen rounds to find you.

And a sixteenth to convince you to come out.

You wonder if your entire flock of sheep has been replaced with wolves if everyone is for the theory of this or the whole darn she-bang. It hurts to imagine a place where you can’t wear a costume.

Where all the wolves aren’t wearing sheep.

And you see the slaughter coming at face value.

You know how to make things sound black and white. You know how to talk yourself in circles enough to avoid guilt. You know how to be beautiful and sexy and magic.

Your mother says your lipstick looks like blood.

And you think you’re so funny, so funny in fact, that you don’t ever know how to shut your mouth, too much like that stupid broken record. And the jokes get swallowed. Or the jokes get too loud. Or the jokes aren’t jokes anymore. This isn’t a joke anymore.

You’re the only one laughing.