Jellicle Girl by Stevie Mikayne

Author:Stevie Mikayne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: relationships, womens fiction, contemporary, literary fiction, evolved publishing, jellicle girl, stevie mikayne
Publisher: Evolved Publishing LLC

Chapter 18

McFarter’s taken to faxing my graduation requirements to Nancy, adding to my list until I’m ready to strangle him—or, more likely, go into his office to complain, which is probably his strategy. So not going to happen. This week, he claims I need five more hours of “community service activities,” or he’ll have to hold me back.

I’ve already done forty hours—more, actually—to insure against this exact scenario. But I’d rather do five extra than have to look at MrFarter’s smug face, particularly since Nancy’s already gone to the trouble of finding me a placement. She doesn’t have to do these things for me. She could send me back for guidance at The Hole, but she never does. I think she pulled a few strings there, but I can’t ask her, because then we’d both have to acknowledge my gratitude, and that would ruin everything.

Lizzie left Beverly again last night. CAS moved her and her mother into a different house so her dad won’t know where to find them. Not that this will prevent Mrs. Emery from calling him and volunteering the information. Lizzie will never be safe with either of her parents.

I told Nancy about it. She didn’t even have to ask me how I felt. “I’m so sorry, Beth.” She’s genuine. She gets points for that, especially on days when her insight really irritates me. I can only blame myself. I’m the idiot who thought the idea of an Elder was cool. Obviously the universe listened, because I got Nancy. Yippee.

***

My community service placement consists of five weeks of one-hour shifts at the hospital. As the only student volunteer in the group, I get stuck with Wednesday afternoons at 3:00. What the hell? My one hour takes up the entire day!

The stench of disinfectant and puréed mush envelops me like a toxic gas as the elevator jolts and squeaks down to the basement of the hospital. I find it more than slightly disturbing that the volunteer room sits directly opposite the morgue.

The volunteer uniform looks like the top half to a flower costume—a billowing cotton blouse, worn over ordinary clothes, that smells like industrial soap that could eviscerate skin. Next to five racks of pink uniforms sits half a rack of plain blue shirts. I imagine myself dressed in one of the blue shirts with the sleeves rolled up, sporting a pair of soft blue jeans and going makeup-less. A numb feeling spreads through my chest. I take the vision one step further... pulling my hair back, or worse, cutting it off. Short. Boy-short, like the dykes I saw holding hands on the street.

The numbness spreads to my hands.

...replacing my wedge sandals with runners. Doc martens. Construction boots....

For heaven’s sake Elizabeth, you look like something the cat dragged backwards through a hedge. Comb your hair and take off those ridiculous cargo pants!

...spiking the tips of my hair blonde like that barista from the kiosk. Putting holes in my ears and stretching them....

Where on earth did you get those vulgar earrings? And is that a dog tag?

Christ on a bike.

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