She Doesn’t Agree

Alanna reads lists in her older sister’s music magazines. Top. Best. Hottest. Opinions of people who write about music as though liking certain things means you are smarter or better or somehow more than lips smiling. Chins bobbing. Bums wiggling.

She Draws It All

Whatever pops into in Alanna’s head drips its way out the pores in her armpits, rolls down her thin arms, leaving trails of red or black or blue, sometimes yellow or orange. It winds up in her hands and dampens the thick round of chalk she always grips on a warm summer day, her bum planted on the sidewalk—not the one right in front of her house though—and out it squishes: horns, birds, fish, cats, slices of pie, crescent moons.

She Makes Choices

Alanna’s made it through a line of wild turkeys before, each one just her size, but ugly and gobbling. Now she faces the boy, a head taller, wearing short pants and boots that look like goat’s feet. She doesn’t like goats, eyes so wide apart that she thinks they must only see side views. They stand still for a moment, as though painted into this mud. She decides to move sideways, suddenly and fast, certain that when he turns his head to follow, he won’t be able to see her.