Hiding

A hideaway can sometimes be a person. When I was in high school I needed a place to hide from my bony knees, my blistered face, so I crept into a girl who laughed loud and stole charm bracelets from Claire’s and drove her Taurus fast with the windows down, Def Leppard on. Pour some sugar on me. She skipped school to eat chicken biscuits from Mrs. Winner’s and brought me, too. She made us buy concert t-shirts from Goodwill, the backs printed with city names climbing like ladders. I stayed inside her, completely covered up, not even my own toes sticking out or the top of my head, my dark part growing. No one knew what had become of me, not even my own mother. They looked and looked. I stayed that way until my hideaway had to go to Mississippi for the summer. I still wonder if she got to hold her baby before the nurses took it.

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