Free If You're Not Yet Like Me by Edan Lepucki Page B

a hunch. I dreamt of Valkyries, warriors. I stole the belt from my father’s bathrobe and used it to tie saucepans to my chest so that that no sword could pierce my heart. I used the saucepan lid as a shield. I imagined that my fingernails were weapons, and my teeth too. On long car rides, I saw myself running along the freeway shoulder, or in the brush, barefoot but in full armor. I assumed the woman I’d become would be vicious and beautiful, the roar of some exotic animal made physical. It’s not so strange, to have high expectations.
    Once, my mother made me some soup from a can, and without thinking, she left the serrated lid on the counter. I thought it might make a wonderful belt buckle, or a deadly Frisbee, and I picked it up. I was careful because I knew that if I wasn’t, the lid’s sharp metal edges could bite into my fingers, and it would hurt.
    I took the lid to the backyard, where I imagined my army waiting for me: they were already bruised from battle, and hungry, and some of them were limping. Gangrene threatened one soldier’s leg, and amputation was imminent.
    I held the promising new weapon aloft for my legions. All four hundred of them leaned forward to get a better view, and I felt the air shift. That’s what hope feels like.
    “We shall win this war!” I called to them. I felt very strong—unstoppable, in fact. I imagine, if you’re not yet like me in this way, that you will be.
    The soup can lid glistened in the sun, its sharp edges singing for blood.
    And blood it got.
    Somewhere in my fantasy, I forgot that my hands were bare, and that I was holding not a weapon but a soup can lid. I ceased to be careful. The spiked edges dug into my fingers and palm, so deep that it didn’t hurt at first. I must have been in shock.
    I forced myself to cry out. “Help!” I might have screamed. I ran to find my mother. When she saw my hand, striped red as a barber’s pole, she wrapped a dish towel around the wounds and held me close. To staunch the bleeding, she pushed hard on the cuts, and with that came the familiar sting and suck. But my hand kept bleeding, and I began to feel woozy. My father called an ambulance. My army found a new leader, or they surrendered, or they dissolved.
    It wasn’t a tragedy. I was stitched up fine, and the scars are hardly noticeable. But I remember the way my mother picked up the lid and tossed it into the trash can. I was home from the hospital by then.
    “Enough of that,” she said. I had been too stupid to deserve a real talking-to.
    The lessons here are clear: No one is free from physical pain. (“No one is invincible, Joellyn.” Yes, thank you, I realize that.) And: Girls who want to be warriors can’t afford to be so careless. And: Girls will bleed, and then they will cry.

    I t was a Saturday night when I decided to call him. I didn’t have plans. The company I’d designed some pamphlets for had compensated me for my labor with a sum so meager I’d already spent it and re-spent it hundreds of times in my mind. I had a crick in my neck and a pimple on my chin. My pretend breasts had deflated days ago. I knew he would be home, which is why I didn’t email him. It was a bold move, but with a woman like me and a man like Zachary, it would be perceived as sexy rather than desperate.
    He picked up on the third ring. “Hello?” he said furtively, as if he were answering from a movie theatre, or a war trench. The memory of him came back to me all at once: his terrible shirt, the utilitarian haircut. Had I noticed a splinter of shaving cream by his ear?
    “Zachary Haas,” I said. “This is Joellyn. We met at the coffee shop last week.” I was very careful to keep my voice controlled. I didn’t want anything to come out as a question.
    “Joellyn—hi.” I heard the surprise in his voice, and the attempt to mask his pleasure. I imagined him standing from his spot on the couch, silencing his about-to-bark dog, or his neighbor, who has stopped by to return a