Mostly people were really gross, and mostly you hated talking to them. You’d be like, “Hey, awesome!”
You’d get thx. Maybe a poor lil heart.
So, like, I get you. Bitch.
She could run a train of thought… And that was one way to be.
Who cared? When she had an assignment, she’d speak all the English her Mom could ever wish for. She’d buckle down and get it done. The thing her Dad would say.
Savannah joked, but got in answer the Pained Look. ’Course, Jeremiah was always pained. And Kate was always…impossible.
And Lil Rae, always cold. Cold lil bitch. But in truth, Savannah admired that in her kid sister. No stopping Rae. They could be friends; they just weren’t.
I’m the loser.
She pushed back her chair and something was catching under the wheels. Her black sweater, fallen off. Knowing it, knowing it, she jerked the thin lambswool out of the metal…thing…
She didn’t say fuck, because she didn’t actually use language, by herself. She did it for Kate. She would have to tear that sleeve half way down until it was falling, and then not say anything.
Her mother would say, “Oh, what’d you do to your sweater?” And on the word sweater her voice would pitch up.
Savannah saw bright pink yarn, Frankenstein stitches. That would be weirder.
You were supposed to picture (for this “biography”), you’d become whatever it was people who knew what they were going to major in in college knew they’d be doing for the rest of their lives. Jeremiah didn’t have any college degree, too bad…and Kate had told Savannah she’d have to go to a state school, unless she wanted to take the SAT again. Never in life.
Savannah Hibbler: Female Assassin, she wrote down. Savannah Hibbler: Doctor of Death. Savannah Hibbler: Dictator for Life.
She used glitter pens.
She drew a skull wearing a tiara of flowers.
She said, “Jesus!” out loud, and rolled her eyes.
She began life (she typed on her tablet) as a normal girl.
Then those people came.
Savannah felt bad for Valentine Yoharie. He’d just moved in with his dad…that was sweet, wasn’t it?…poor Mr. Yoharie, his kids coming to stay. Snooty Giarma.
I wish I had all her stuff.
He’d got to drop out of school, Valentine, which was most decidedly awesome. All of a sudden—for her sake (though perhaps unbeknown)—he had to be an example of what that kid down the street was going to turn into, according to her parents.
She subscribed to Trevor’s blogs because her father hated him.
She used Totem-speech.
I would not have asked to be born
A freaking Hibbler.
At Roberta Witticombe’s blog, she looked with envy. If you were friends with the professor down the street, maybe you’d get in on a recommendation. She just liked this thought of Kate, her stingy pride, confounded.
Someone, posting on Roberta’s blog, put up a link, and a picture—a plate of mini bunt cakes. Each had drip icing, white, dusted in purple sugar, and a flower, real.
Candied violets, it said.
Seriously? (someone wrote) Just like the ones in the yard?
Go grab you some. Check out the link! Easy-peasy.
Yeah…but it’s the peasy that gets you.
Savannah had a vision. That you could make something…and it would work out, and people would say, “Oh! That’s so great! Could you make one for me?”
It would be a whole thing to do for a living. And she could leave right away.
(copyright 2018 Stephanie Foster)