Alyson Font

5

I am so close to the glass window that I can see my freckled face stare back at me. My breath soon creates a fog over the glass – beads of precipitation covering my inquiring gaze. The heat is suffocating. The sweat from my legs causes my skin to stick to the leather of the car seat. “Turning on the AC wastes energy,” my moms says, not taking her gaze off the dirt road. I say nothing and return to looking out the window. The image of swimming in the shimmering lake soothes me to sleep.

6

I bite off a piece of my salami sandwich, hardly noticing the pickle juice dripping down my fingers. My mother’s narrow eyes trace the movement, but she says nothing. Absent-mindedly my nails trace circles in grainy dirt. My own code displayed before me. When I finish eating, my mother only gives a slight nod before I dive into the lake. Water playfully caresses my hair as I see a small ashen fish swim next to me. It trains its small pebbly eyes upon me as it takes a bite of my big toe. I wonder if I taste like salami. I soon swim back. As the water grows shallower, my feet begin walking against small pebbles and the sunlight strikes my already sunburnt knees. I see my mother’s face come into focus. Curly auburn hair covered by a white trimmed straw hat. She smells like ocean spray and sunscreen. I smell like sweat and algae. “My wild child,” she says, rolling her eyes. I grin back at her – a piece of meat still stuck in my teeth.

8

I sit next to my mother on our faded striped towel. I turn my head toward the sound of airy voices. A group of girls – highschoolers my mother mumbles to herself – lay on thick fluffy towels with their faces turned toward the sun. They all have bronze skin and silky hair that falls like waves across their shoulders. I reach my hand up and feel the tangle of crispy knots of hair. My mothers motions me to sit between her legs. “Jesus your hair. It looks like a rat’s nest,” my mother comments. Her swollen joints grip a brush and drag the bristles through my hair. I feel each strand of hair being plucked like removing invasive weeds from a garden. I stare at my mother’s feet – the chipped blue nail polish, the small areas of sagging flesh around her ankles, how the left toe turns slightly inward. When she finishes, I go back into the water to escape the sun’s knowing gaze.

11

When dark clouds begin descending over the lake, I feel goosebumps multiply across my skin. I reach into the tote bag, and pull out my sweater. I quickly pull it over my head and bury my face into the fleece. The tang of pine floods my nose. I hear laughter, causing me to raise my head. A head of messy blonde hair with lanky fingers creates shapes in the dirt. She makes code too. Curiosity takes hold of me, and I move my stiff legs to her. It isn’t until my silent shadow descends over her that she notices me standing. “How old are you,” she asks. Her voice is raspy. “11,” I reply. Her gaze snags on my sweater and wrinkles her nose in disgust. I feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment. I mumble an apology and quickly run to the bathroom. The leathery soles of my feet avoid the stale puddles of lakewater on the concrete floor. The stale air is full of decay that I hardly dare breathe. I look into the yellow tinted mirror. Flies curl around the sickly light from above. The pink of my sweater is the only bright color. A white bunny and orange fox play in a field of daisies. Best Friends is displayed above the animals. I take a breath in and taste the sour rot in the air. Disgusting. On my way out, I throw the sweater into the trash alongside the remains of soggy bandages and fly-ridden apple cores.

13

I hold my mother’s compact mirror up to the light while she sleeps on the towel. Pimples cover my face from the sides of my cheeks to the bridge of my nose. A putrid red against my skin. I run my fingers over the bumps, their slight ridges defacing my skin. I lean so close to the mirror that I can see the vomit green in my eyes. I bring my hands close to the first red invader and pinch my fingers tightly around it. My eyes water in an attempt to put out the fire growing in my cheeks. Tears dribble down and run into the corner of my mouth. I taste salt. I do not stop. My fingers continue pressing, until the skin erupts in blood. Blood trickles along my chin, and I see half crescent marks indented in my skin. I repeat.

16

I lay on my back, with my gaunt skin turned toward the pale sun. I feel tiny shards of rock dig themselves into the fat of my skin. I twirl a full piece of dirt-ridden hair around my thin finger, pulling so hard that a flaccid strand of hair falls to the ground. My mother asks if I want to swim in the lake. I turn toward her, noticing ridges of wrinkles that snake across her face. I lift my hand to shield my eyes, noting the uneven keratin with loose strips of skin that surround my fingertips. We have been coming to this beach since I was 5. I think back to those memories and a wave of sadness descends over me. I can’t place why. I then lift my head and gaze at the dull water with clumps of algae on its surface. I imagine bacteria seeping into bloated human skin. I think of oily fish skin brushing against my own. I simply shake my head and return to gazing back up at the dying sun’s light, trying to soak up the last of its heat.

Alyson Font is a first-year student studying Creative Writing and Neuroscience. Outside of writing, you can catch her listening to music and munching on food.