We are trying to ruin our childhood. We help the ones that haven't bloomed yet stuff their bras with tissue, toilet paper, and walk to the Turkey Hill. Real flesh and padded chests, jelly sandals, jean shorts, flip-flop up the hill to spend allowances on Slushees and Red Vines, anything that will stain our mouths a vampy red. We stand by the bike rack, nibbling, slurping, and watch the boys from down the street or up the block lock their bikes without looking at us once. We've known these boys all our lives. We never noticed them before unless they farted in class or pushed us on the playground. We would let them push us on the playground now, if our school had one. We are trying to learn how to please. We don't allow character sleeping bags at sleepovers any more. We just wrap ourselves in blankets on the floor of a rec room. We watch movies with lots of kissing and take turns practicing on the backs of our hands. We take turns so we can critique technique. Lips not soft enough. Not enough moaning. Looks too wet. We never think to kiss each other. We log into chat rooms with names like AngelKitten69 or SexyBaby87. We talk to men. Real men with houses and jobs. Men who could take us away from basements and convenient stores and gym classes. Men who call us angel peaches baby honey sweetie pie sugar. They talk like they want to eat us. They ask us what will you do? And we say anything. Anything.
About the Author: Meghan Phillips is the fiction editor of Third Point Press. She lives in Lancaster, PA, where she works in an archives and a public library. You can find her on Twitter @mcarphil.
Story Song: "#1 Crush" by Garbage