All the Rage

My bones ache, have aged somehow in the last twenty-four hours. I press my palms against the grit and the bitter hurt of it startles me into semiawareness. They’re scraped, raw and pink, what happens when you crawl.

A distant rumbling reaches my ears. A car. It passes and then slows, backs up, comes to a halt beside me. Its door opens and slams shut. I close my eyes and listen to the soft crunch of soft soles on rough gravel.

Birds are singing.

The footsteps stop but the birds are still singing, singing about a girl who wakes up on a dirt road and doesn’t know what happened to her the night before, and the person standing over her, a shadow across her body that blocks out the sun. Maybe it’s someone nice. Or maybe someone come to finish whatever it is that’s been started. About a girl.

Don’t look at her.





TWO WEEKS EARLIER





before i tore the labels off, one was called Paradise and the other, Hit and Run. It doesn’t matter which is which. They’re both blood red.

Proper application of nail polish is a process. You can’t paint it on like it’s nothing and expect it to last. First, prep. I start with a four-way buffer. It gets rid of the ridges and gives the polish a smooth surface to adhere to. Next, I use a nail dehydrator and cleanser because it’s best to work with a nail plate that’s dry and clean. Once it’s evaporated, a thin layer of base coat goes on. The base coat protects the nails and prevents staining.

I like the first coat of polish to be thin enough to dry by the time I’ve finished the last nail on the same hand. I keep my touch steady and light. I never drag the brush, I never go back into the bottle more than once per nail if I can help it. Over time and with practice, I’ve learned how to tell if what’s on the brush will be enough.

Some people are lazy. They think if you’re using a highly pigmented polish, a second coat is unnecessary, but that’s not true. The second coat asserts the color and arms you against the everyday use of your hands, all the ways you can cause damage without thinking. When the second coat is dry, I take a Q-tip dipped in nail polish remover to clean up any polish that might have bled onto my skin. The final step is the top coat. The top coat is what seals in the color and protects the manicure.

The application of lipstick has similar demands. A smooth canvas is always best and dead skin must be removed. Sometimes that takes as little as a damp washcloth, but other times I scrub a toothbrush across my mouth just to be sure. When that’s done, I add the tiniest amount of balm, so my lips don’t dry out. It also gives the color something to hold on to.

I run the fine fibers of my lip brush across the slanted top of my lipstick until my lips are coated and work the brush from the center of my lips out. After the first layer, I blot on a tissue and add another layer, carefully following the outline of my small mouth before smudging the color out so it looks a little fuller. Like with the nail polish, layering always helps it to last.

And then I’m ready.





cat kiley is the first one down.

Today, anyway. I don’t see it happen. I’m ahead, my feet kicking up track while the others pant behind me. The sun is in my throat. I woke up choking on it, my skin slimy with sweat and stuck to the sheets. It’s a dry, stale summer that doesn’t know it’s supposed to be over. It breathes itself out slowly, wants us to forget other seasons. It’s a sick heat. Makes you sick.

“Cat? Cat!”

I glance behind me, see her sprawled out on the track and keep moving. I focus on the steady rhythm of my pulse and by the time I’ve circled, she’s coming around, less the girl she was before she fell. Pale and monosyllabic. Sun-jacked. That’s what the boys are calling it.

Coach Prewitt is on her knees, gently pouring a bottle of water over Cat’s forehead while barking out questions. You eat, Kiley? You eat breakfast today? Drink anything? You on your period? The boys shift uncomfortably because oh God, what if she’s bleeding.

“Does it matter? We shouldn’t be out in this anyway,” Sarah Trainer mutters.

Prewitt looks up and squints. “This heat ain’t news, Trainer. You come to my class, you come prepared. Kiley, you eat today? Breakfast?”

“No,” Cat finally manages.

Prewitt stands, her has-been athlete joints crackling and popping. This small act, this kneeling and rising, blossoms beads of sweat across her forehead. Cat struggles to her feet and sways. Her face is going to meet that track again if nobody gets ahold of her.

“Garrett, carry her to the nurse’s office.”

The lineman steps forward. Number 63. Broad shoulders, all muscled and firm. Never trust a blond boy, that’s what my mom always says, and Brock Garrett is so blond his eyebrows are nearly invisible. The light above catches the fine hairs on his arms and makes them shimmer. He lifts Cat easily. Her head lolls against his chest.

Prewitt spits. It dries before it hits the ground. “Get back to it!” And we scatter, we run. There are thirty minutes of this period left and we can’t all still be standing at the end of it.

“Think she’s okay?” Yumi Suzuki gasps out ahead of me. Her long hair flies behind her and she makes a frustrated noise as she tries to hold it back with one hand before quickly giving up. Her elastic band snapped earlier. Prewitt wouldn’t let her go in for another because nothing short of collapsing gets you out of her class and even that gets taken out of your grade.

“She’s faking,” Tina Ortiz says. She’s tiny, just slightly over five feet. The boys used to call her an ankle-biting bitch until puberty hit and breasts happened. Now they just call her. “She wants to be carried.”

When Prewitt’s whistle finally blows and we’re dragging ourselves back inside, she grabs me by the arm and pulls me aside because she thinks I can run, she thinks I could get trophies or ribbons—whatever they give you for it.