Mitch likes Clara, likes the way she wears pink on Valentine’s Day, orange on Halloween. He likes how her voice slurs when she’s excited, likes how her ponytail bobs when she laughs. He likes the tingly feeling he gets when she taps him on the shoulder to ask if he finished the Latin translations. Mitch sometimes considers asking Clara if she’d like to be the first giggly sophomore girl to ride shotgun in his second-hand station wagon. That’s just it...

Mitch supposes he likes Clara. He likes the way she wears pink on Valentine’s Day, green on Saint Patrick’s Day. He likes how her breath feels warm on the nape of his neck when she leans over her desk and asks him if he did last night’s Latin translations. Mitch sometimes considers asking Clara if she’d like to be the first wide-eyed, giggly sophomore to ride shotgun in his beat-up, second hand station wagon. But that’s just it though, even...

You told me it wouldn't work because I am milk and kittens. Because I am strawberry bubblegum breath and tea, not coffee. That's a lie. It's because I'm afraid of merging onto the interstate at rush hour. Because it's not funny to me when your parents call cigarettes dinner, their elbows splayed on that stupid, red checkered tablecloth, that stupid, picnic tablecloth. Because I cringe when they hoist your brother up like a sack of potatoes, his fat, baby head...

During the winter of my twelfth year, I officially became old enough to check myself into the doctor’s office. My mother didn’t waste time reminiscing over my childhood. Instead, she lounged in the car, feet propped on the dash, flipping through the glossy pages of gossip magazines. Well, at least that’s what I imagined her doing. The air in the pediatrics department is laced with stranger’s germs. To my right, a girl with a head cold sneezes. Her brother sniffles...

It had been Lisbeth who convinced you to go to ballet class. You should of known that you wouldn't fit in. You weren't one of the girls who vacationed in the Hamptons. Their praying mantis mothers had gifted you with Goodwill leotards; olive greens, browns, one crude shade of mustard. They grinned pityingly at you from the observation window, sniggering as their flamingo daughters twirled around you. Their daughters were all leggy and baby pink. They drank Diet Coke and...