Dorito dust nail polish. Fresh and dainty. Morgan picks one chip at a time. Snaps a corner into her mouth. Snaps the other two sides and pinches the orange shuriken between pointer and thumb. Lets it fly. Says she can go hours without eating. Slices me between the eyes. Says it as she stands at the top of the hill. Hip bones jutting like knives above the waistline of her Abercrombie shorts. Morgan doesn’t know what fat girls do. She doesn’t know that they eat three or four lunches then wear sweats in 80-degree heat. That they empty their bodies completely. They want their chance at being pretty. She doesn’t hear the teen magazines screaming in their ears. Morgan doesn’t know how threatening she is. She doesn’t know that the fat girls are tired of not being Mary Kate or Ashley. That they’re tired of not being Morgan or the dark-haired twins with pierced bellybuttons and messy buns. Tired of not being their younger sister, the one who babysat me and wrote on her stick figure drawing “I like men,” then laughed and laughed and I didn’t. Because she was Mary Kate and Ashley, and I was on the outside looking in. She was on a holiday in the sun and I was fidgeting with the remote. Morgan leaps almost flies off the school bus steps. Pets her beefy dog behind its ears. Calling it a cute little bitch as it leans its full body against her Baby Spice knees. Its head lifting up. Begging for more.
Dorito dust nail polish. Fresh and Dainty. Morgan picks one chip at a time. Snaps a corner into her mouth. Snaps the other two sides and pinches the orange shuriken between pointer and thumb. Lets it fly. Says she can go hours without eating. Slices me between the eyes. Says it as she stands at the top of the hill. Hip bones jutting like knives above the waistline of her Abercrombie shorts. Morgan doesn’t know what fat girls do. She doesn’t know that they eat three or four lunches then wear sweats in 80-degree heat. That they empty their bodies completely. They want their chance at being pretty. She doesn’t hear the teen magazines screaming in their ears. Morgan doesn’t know how threatening she is. She doesn’t know that the fat girls are tired of not being Mary Kate or Ashley. That they’re tired of not being Morgan or the dark-haired twins with pierced bellybuttons and messy buns. Tired of not being their younger sister, the one who babysat me and wrote on her stick figure drawing “I like men,” then laughed and laughed and I didn’t. Because she was Mary Kate and Ashley, and I was on the outside looking in. She was on a holiday in the sun and I was fidgeting with the remote. Morgan leaps almost flies off the school bus steps. Pets her beefy dog behind its ears. Calling it a cute little bitch as it leans its full body against her Baby Spice knees. Its head lifting up. Begging for more.
