Free Swimming by Nicola Keegan

mid-flight, says: I can’t do this .
    At one restaurant, the waiter who seated us without a word and took our order with a sigh removes her untouched plate, bringing back a soft-boiled egg without being asked. It sits in a small silver cup next to a folded linen napkin and six strips of perfectly grilled baguette. She eats the egg slowly with a silver teaspoon. Pleased.
    Roxanne spots the Dalí mustache on the Boulevard Beaumarchais. It’s on a tight-bellied biker with an old-fashioned face and funny James Dean hair. I see him first, but Roxanne says: Isn’t that weird little guy over there wearing a Dalí mustache?
    Leonard opens his wallet with a Bravo; some said it couldn’t be done, but here we have our Dalí mustache winner .
    At the end of a quest, a trip loses flavor.
    We take the boats weaving through the center of the city, the sky so low it touches water, city birds flapping by with city-bird faces. Roxanne falls asleep with her head on my shoulder. I jab her hard with an elbow. I saw it first .
    Mom starts counting down, pushing the present into the past with the future. No sooner here than gone. Over breakfast she says: Just think, tomorrow we’ll be home , and home looms colorful and wise, simple and good. On the plane, Bron says: Well, that sucked and all loud voices are discontinued until further notice. I look out the porthole at the darkness swirling below. Sometimes a lone spark of light appears, here, then there.

Thee Thou Thine
    Dot and Roxanne are playing Ping-Pong; Dot’s losing because she keeps stopping to pull up her jeans. The sky’s shining a flat, even light over the yard, the wind blowing invisibly into the trees. I like this weather; sitting under the sun when the wind stops, I get as hot as I do in the summer. I’m reclining in a lawn chair, holding a red and white plastic bag of malted milk balls, eating them one by one. Bron’s reclining next to me, quietly watching Dot let herself lose. She’s cold, is wearing her orange parka, a heavy wool cap, a scarf, and a blanket.
    Wanna malted? I hold the open bag out to her without turning. Roxanne is playing viciously, slicing her paddle down hard at an angle, the white ball reacting in a spastic, impossible flight you’d have to be inhuman to follow.
    She pushes it away. Dead people don’t eat malted milk balls .
    I don’t want to, but I look anyway. She’s looking at me already.
    What?
    Dead people don’t eat malted milk balls .
    This is new. I have to be careful. You’re not dead .
    Actually, darling …
    There is no medical doctor in the world who would agree with you , I say carefully.
    Like I give a shit who agrees with me .
    Bron is expert at saying things no one can respond to; it’s part of the debate technique that won her many matches across the state of Kansas. I think hard, but my brain lets me down; all I feel inside is a white electric blank and, stuck in my gob, sliding slowly down my throat like a hunk of clay, a malted milk ball. My lousy year is lengthening into two, school’s just started again, the Cocoplat has a boyfriend who leans his body into hers when the nuns have their backs turned. Her world is spiraling away from mine at warp speed, and my body is still refusing to accept the natural curse that unites all women, even nuns. I check every day, am still girl. Worry gnaws at my innards.
    Well … no one would agree to … that , I say, trying to swallow the sugary lump of cement, fail, hacking up shards that scratch my throat on their way up and out.
    Look at them , she says, pointing to Dot and Roxy with a hand composed of toothpicks and glue. Dot’s face is sweating flame with effort. Roxanne’s lips are a cool blue, her eyes filled with a relentless killer instinct she will one day turn on herself. That’s alive. Now look at me .
    I won’t.
    Look at me .
    I won’t.
    I’m going to pull you by your hair, Philomena Grace. I swear to fucking God. Look at me .
    I hate it when she uses my full name, but