In autumn we scrawl SKUNK WHORE on Donna’s locker. FATSO on her math-folder. She doesn’t seem to notice. In winter, we put mouse-shit in her laptop. Fill her silence with our sing-song as we pass her in the hallway, Donut Donna, Dunkin’ Donna.
Beneath the weak sun of a mid-March morning, we stuff our bleached hair into beanies. Follow Donna to the stale popcorn mall. Giggle when she picks out a Taylor Swift t-shirt from the X-L rack. Rubs a pair of glittery hot pants against her cheek.
We whisper-creep into the changing rooms. Beneath Curtain 6, Donna’s thick calves. We part the curtains an inch. Donna gazes at her own reflection, Taylor’s name blazing across her chest. The t-shirt is taut. Narrows in at Donna’s waist. Her thighs curve gently below the hot pants. She looks older, like the girls in twelfth grade.
Donna raises her chin to the mirror, her hair glowing red in the sharp lights. Thrusts back her shoulders, same as our Moms when they see our Dads. Her fingers slip into the front of the hot pants, move beneath the thin fabric –– its glitter lit-up in a sparkle-dance. She moans softly. The room’s three mirrors reflect multiple Donnas, each tall as a goddess. We gasp. She turns to us with neon eyes. Her laughter echoes from a hundred pairs of red lips in the mirrors. Amplifies into a swarm of starlings that darken the air, peck our brains, swell our tongues. The last thing we hear is a Taylor Swift giggle through the sound system overhead.
Lisa Alletson's stories and poems are published in Atticus Review, Crab Creek Review, Fictive Dream, Flash Fiction Magazine, Gone Lawn, Milk Candy Review, New Ohio Review, among other journals. You can find her on BlueSky and Facebook at @LisaAlletson.
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