Free The Freak Observer by Blythe Woolston Page A

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    We went shopping.
    The mall makes me miserable. I know it isn’t supposed to, but it hurts my eyes and ears and gives me a headache. Too many reflections, too many places where music is coming at me from two directions at once. It just freaks me out.
    Even though Corey seemed to know exactly what he was looking for, finding the debate costume of his dreams was difficult.
    As for me, I lived through similar hell when I played Barbies with Reba in second grade. Endlessly shoving uncooperative arms into impossibly skinny sleeves: not fun. Chopping firewood builds biceps, and I chop a lot of firewood. Nothing fits right. My hair looked as frustrated as I felt. It floated around my head full of static electricity and all fratzed out from pulling things on and off.
    Finally, though, Corey was satisfied. It was a charcoal gray suit. The skinny skirt wasn’t short, but it fit tight. It had a slit up the back so I could walk a bit. The jacket, Corey announced, would create the illusion of an ass. And there were tall black boots with heels too.
    When I came out of the fitting room I was surprised at Corey’s face. When I looked in the three angled mirrors, I was even more surprised. I saw myself. Anyway I hoped it was myself. The only time I look in the mirror on purpose is when I brush my teeth. My self-image, as they say on
Oprah
, is a little warped. I’m used to seeing my hands doing what I tell my hands to do. I’m used to seeing my feet when I pull on my socks. But I am not used to seeing myself like this, a whole person.
    The person in the mirror looked spooky good. Even with her wispy dark hair a mess, that person in the mirror looked like she could flick trouble out of her way like a bug. Her eyes looked level into mine. When I saw that person in the mirror, I stood different and I walked different. I felt different. And I liked it.
    It may have been a coincidence, but my debate scores went up the first time I wore those clothes to a meet.
    . . .
    I liked not being home.
    But I assumed that home was going to be there when I got back. One day, it wasn’t.
    It’s not like the house burned down or an earthquake split the rock and swallowed everything whole. It was worse. More personal. My dog, Ket, died.
    He was getting a little old. It took him a little longer to get up, especially on cold mornings. He never jumped off the porch to terrorize squirrels anymore. Still, he might have lived years and years, but he fell through the thin ice on the creek.
    He probably just went down to get a drink, and when the ice broke, he wasn’t quick enough to make it out. He didn’t drown, but his back legs were swept under the ice by the water. He just hung on and struggled.
    Little Harold found him there when he didn’t come to get his dinner. Poor Little Harold. He tried, but he’s just a little kid and he didn’t have the strength. He just kept trying and crying until Dad went looking for him. Dad says we were just lucky that Little Harold didn’t get trapped under the ice too.
    All of this is secondhand knowledge. I didn’t see it. I was having fun. I was at a speech and debate meet, racking up points. I was riding a bus through the snowy dark with a bunch of other speech and drama nerds. Ket never crossed my mind. Little Harold never crossed my mind. I never had a fleeting psychic moment where I looked at the icy world outside and shivered. I was perfectly, selfishly happy.
    My dad was strong enough to fight the water and the ice, but he couldn’t fight The Bony Guy.
    . . .
    Poor Little Harold slept all night on the floor by the woodstove with his arms around Ket’s neck. When morning came, it was pretty clear that things weren’t right. Ket didn’t even try to get up.
    By that afternoon, my dad had decided the only kind thing to do was put him down. Little Harold cried. Dad probably wanted to, but he just got the rifle and the dog into the truck and went to do what