Day 6 | Decameron2

Under the umbrella of “Verbal Harassment” we have included any and all found instances of insult and name-calling on campus, including both direct and indirect forms of communication, such as written harassment or nonverbal harassment (see Anika Anez in Voluntary Student Reports, or the viola section of the orchestra in Voluntary Student Reports). Verbal harassment proved to be even more common than we originally anticipated, with at least 50% of the seventh grade being affected. We found that, while male and female students were equally likely to be verbally harassed to their faces, female students were up to 80% more likely to experience indirect verbal harassment through remarks made behind their backs, or written commentary on bathroom stalls.

Voluntary Student Reports.

Liam Garland reported having been called the following names (in no particular order): fairy, homo, gaylord, gaytard, Dory (his face is shaped like Dory the fish from Pixar’s Finding Nemo), loser, bitch, bitch boy, bitch baby, and penis.

Nora Halley reported frequently hearing the use of racially or sexually connotative and derogatory terms to describe things that are bad. (For example, a hard test may have been “ratchet” or “gay,” and a tough teacher might be a “crackhead”). When asked if she could name specific instances or the names of the students who employed such language, Nora could not. When pressed, she also admitted that she didn’t think her fellow classmates were using the words seriously or in order to induce real harm.

It is possible that Ms. Halley’s disillusionment with this school and her classmates is merely a projection of her grief, as she tragically lost her seven year old brother Matt only last year, which has had a profound effect on her. Then again, it is perfectly possible for people to suffer tragedy without falling to pieces. For example, Kathy Robinson is in the middle of a divorce, but she is doing perfectly well for herself, which I know because I saw her just the other night. We bumped into each other at a Party City. She was wearing a very flattering purple dress and just the right amount of eye-shadow, which are the signs of good mental health in a woman.

Lila Robinson called Vinny Toscano a bad kisser with smelly breath and “no game” (see Appendix, Entry 3).

Jackie Brown called Drew Mansfeld “irrelevant” (see Appendix, Entry 12)

Jessica Mendelsohn, Aria Jones, and Michelle Chen all reported having been called sluts. When pressed further, Ms. Jones said she had not ever been called a whore or a skank, but Jessica said had been called a whore, and Michelle said she had been called both a whore and a skank. Out of the three, only Michelle had been called a slut to her face on school grounds. Jessica was called a slut over text, and Aria was called a slut over SnapChat video.

Daniel Kravitz reported being made fun of for his height (4’8”).

Anika Anez reported being harassed because of her weight (147 lbs). This harassment has manifested in name calling (“tubby tits”), and in a group of boys in her science class walking in slow circles around her to imitate planets orbiting a center of gravity. Anika also reported an incident from her 6th period gym class — every time it was her turn to climb the rope, a group of girls yelled the phrase “She came in like a wrecking ball,” which, Anika clarified, is a musical reference to the 2013 Miley Cyrus hit song “Wrecking Ball,” which reached number one on the charts in the U.S., Brazil, and Lebanon, but did not reach number one on the charts in Sweden, South Africa, or the Czech Republic. When asked to identify the girls, Anika referred to them as “just some irrelevant sluts,” for which she was rewarded a week of detention.

The viola section of the orchestra played the melody to “I Just Had Sex” by The Lonely Island when Lila Robinson walked into the room (see Appendix, Entry 5).

Lila Robinson called the viola section of the orchestra “major cunts” (see Appendix, Entry 5).

Liam Garland returned to report that, in the two weeks since his original appointment, he had been newly called a bitch-ass and “limp dick Liam,” the latter of which was “catching on.”

Anchor 2

Kira's Birthday

By Amy Muller

BILLIE WAS TEARING through her apartment like a tornado. Her sister’s birthday brunch started in fifteen minutes, and she still needed to do her hair and makeup, pick an outfit, frost some cupcakes, feed her cat, brush her teeth, and wrap her gift. Now it was fourteen minutes.

She had known this was coming up and should have planned accordingly, but she’d been absolutely swamped at work for the last two weeks, not to mention staying out late the night before trying to be supportive of her friend who was trying to get his start as a DJ.

With a piping bag in her right hand and an eyeliner pencil in her left, she heroically tried to pull her act together with enough time to get to her sister’s place no more than half an hour late. It would be embarrassing, sure, but she knew the assembled friends and family would forgive and forget once Kira opened the perfect gift Billie had gotten her.

She had ordered it custom-made three weeks prior, and it was still sitting in its box next to Billie’s bed. It was a sweater based on one of her and her sister’s inside jokes, with a fake poster for “The #GirlBossBaby,” their imagined threequel to “The Boss Baby,” cross-stitched on the front. The words were pink and glittery, and there was an outline of a baby underneath with a bow on its head, because of gender. It was just dumb enough that it could accidentally be taken seriously, and she knew Kira would love it (being a fan of both nonsense and the decorative arts).

Given the week she’d been having, Billie didn’t even get the chance to take the sweater out, and now that she was running late, she just slapped a bow on the cute little box the boutique had shipped it in (because of gender?), threw it in her tote, grabbed her cupcakes, and ran out the door.

Having received a spare key to Kira’s apartment when she moved to the city a year prior, Billie was able to slide into the party relatively unnoticed, drop her gift on the table, sneak her cupcakes into the kitchen, and greet everyone as though she’d been there the whole time.

“Will, there you are!” She said to her sister’s fiance while going in for a hug, “How long have you been here?”

Worked like a charm.

Once brunch started, Billie sat between her mother and a few of Kira’s friends from college. As usual, her sister’s pristine table settings and superhuman ability to throw a party left her feeling comfortably inadequate, but as soon as the pancakes started making their way around the table, she was able to focus on more pressing matters.

There were toasts, with family and friends raising a glass to Kira and all her accomplishments: the successful move to the Big City, the ascendant career, the hot fiance (making inappropriate comments about how ridiculously hot Will was had become a pastime of all those in Kira’s life. He would always get so flustered when they did it...which was, of course, also hot in its way).

Billie was obviously proud of her sister, but the sideways glances from her mother whenever one of Kira’s accomplishments was brought up were starting to prickle. It’s fine, she repeated to herself, I’m gonna crush it during presents.

When the time for gift-opening rolled around, Billie was, indeed, set to crush it. Hers hadn’t been opened yet, but the earlier opens were completely uninspired and uncreative. Unrequested housewares, bestselling books, even gift cards. Gift cards! What clearer way is there to say “I don’t really know anything about you, but you’re worth twenty dollars to me nonetheless?”

Kira picked up Billie’s gift. Initially embarrassed for the inelegant wrap job, Billie was now glad that it was a little bit rough around the edges. The low expectations were going to mean an even bigger reaction when she took the sweater out of the box.

“That one’s from me!” Billie shouted, eagerly, as her sister removed the bow. She couldn’t wait to see the look on her face.

But when Kira looked into the box, she just looked perplexed.

“Take it out of there!” Billie shouted, at the edge of her seat. “Come on, it’s so funny! It’s fine if they don’t get it.”

With a half-smile on, Kira set the box down and pulled out the sweater. Billie’s face dropped. The stitch looked great, but the sweater was tiny. How could this have happened? She had specifically ordered a size six, but it was dawning on her that perhaps given the infantile content, the Etsy crossstitcher might have assumed it was “six months” rather than an adult women’s six.

Kira tried to laugh it off. “Bibi, it’s sweet that you have this much faith in my diet and exercise plan, but I don’t even know if there are enough barre classes in the world to fit me in this.” The whole table laughed. This was a disaster. “But the Boss Baby thing is hilarious, so thank you!”

No, no, no. Billie would not just sit there and be laughed at. She would not walk out of here as the one who got the worst gift. She would not let everyone sit there and think that she didn’t know that her sister couldn’t fit in a sweater that was less than a square foot in size.

“Oh, Kira, I never thought that would fit you!” She blurted. “It’s not for you! It’s for…” her mouth was about three paces ahead of her brain now, “the baby!”

Kira’s face went white. Will dropped his head into his hands. Their mother literally clutched her pearls. In the immortal words of Scooby-Doo: Ruh-roh.

The party took a bit of a turn from there. But six months later, as toasters sat unopened, books sat unread, Banana Republic gift cards went unspent, and a sweet little baby crawled around in a delightfully ironic sweater, nobody would look back on that party and say that Billie had brought the worst gift.

Anchor 3

Operation: Annie

By Evan Montgomery

DEAR DAIRY,

Today was another horrendous day in the seventh grade. Mom made me tuna for lunch and when I tell you that everyone made fun of me for it, I mean everyone. The lunch lady followed me around for the ENTIRE lunch period calling me a beached tuna fish. Jason’s mom packed him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with Scooby-doo fruit snacks. I keep telling my mom this is the reason I’m not popular, but she never listens. Just carrots and tuna sandwiches for me.

The good news is that “Operation: Annie” worked out fairly well. For the readers of my diary that didn’t read the page I wrote on Wednesday, “Operation: Annie” is something I thought of after my therapist told me I should try using my talents to my advantage when being confronted with bullies. So, the idea I had was to sing the chorus of the song “Tomorrow” from the hit musical Annie, when my teacher calls on me in math class. I did this mainly to prove to people like Luke and Alex that I’m not the wimp they think I am and that I have a voice given to me by the angels. Surprisingly it worked! I’m essentially top of the food chain now. They even said that what I did was “social suicide” which sounds pretty bad ass (pardon my French XD).

In other news, I didn’t end up getting the part of Todo in the Wizard of Oz. The director Ms. Daily said that I was pretty much just too good at acting and singing and she didn’t want the other kids to feel bad. Well, that’s not what she said with her mouth, but it is what she said with her eyes.

Anyways, tune in tomorrow to see if the letter written to Ross Lynch by the RLFC (Ross Lynch Fan Club) gets a response! Fingers crossed!

Stay Classy *Fedora tip* UwU

Anchor 4

Harder Thoughts

By Jack Becker

NICK HAD HOPED to keep their diagnosis a secret, especially in the midst of an investigation into their own actions and those of another university affiliate, one with considerably more power who had made muddy moves to make Nick a pariah, both in an official and social sense. There’s no reason to believe that this other affiliate would use Nick’s diagnosis against them—until the affiliate does, right in the open in front of several others at a bar during a mutual friend’s birthday party.

“They’re literally going to the office of University Life, trying to say I treated them like shit,” the asshole affiliate said to everyone around him, pointing at Nick. “But does anyone want to talk about how they literally have BPD? Like, why are we even entertaining the perspective of someone whose personality is literally disordered.”

Nick had only told one other person about how they’ve been given the label of Borderline Personality Disorder, someone who must’ve betrayed their trust. They feel their throat closing, hands clenching, jaw tightening to the point of shaking.

“At least I HAVE a personality, you fuckhole,” Nick found themself saying. “Unless you count jerking off to your own prominence as one, you pathetic fucking phallus.”

And then everyone at the party is laughing and taking another shot, and the asshole affiliate’s face is mortified—probably more at himself than at what Nick’s just said—as he realizes that anyone previously on his side isn’t anymore, but is now offering to buy Nick’s next round at the bar.

Anchor 5

5000 Pitbulls in the Wind

By Joey Rupcich

"NOT IN PUBLIC."

Carlos shuddered, quickly drawing his hand back. He knew Seb’s rules and respected them, but that didn’t stop the pain. Every year was going to be the year Seb told his parents, the year he would proudly hold Carlos’s hand during the Summer Swing Festival, the year they’d dance together to their song down at the bowling alley, maybe even the year they’d walk down the aisle as a string quartet played the very first notes of a lifelong love song. But nothing ever changed in a small town like Sheboygan. Seasons came and went, but Sebastian Thelonius Wickland could never tell his parents that music didn’t actually make him blow chunks like a freshman at his first frat party.

15 years ago at his first grade choir, Seb felt sick. In an act of complete defiance and rebelliousness, Seb had secretly eaten the entire package of Double Stuf Oreos rather than his daily allotted single Oreo. As Icarus flew too close to the Sun, so did Seb dive too deep into the stuf, the delicious depths of creme-filled glory a siren’s call leading his ship to wreck upon the rocks of tummy troubles. As Mrs. Swatzak played the first few notes on her piano, Seb opened his mouth to sing, but instead, out poured a seemingly endless stream of Oreo vomit. Like a raging waterfall, he absolutely drenched the entire first row of the audience who had unknowingly sat themselves in the splash zone. After what felt like ages, Seb looked up, having evacuated all the stuf from his body, and locked eyes with his parents. Seb feared for his life. Stan Wickland had grown up under the intense pressure of his mother’s watching eyes, and he judged over his son with that same set of eyes. In an effort to save himself, Stan blurted out the first excuse that came to mind.

“It was the music! The music hurt my tummy!”

With his quick thinking Seb had saved his life, but for how long? Eating excessive Oreos then vomiting them all over yourself and several others was a sin already worthy of a whole year on time out, but lying about doing that was a crime meriting the eternal damnation of his soul. Little 6 year old Seb saw only one course of action. He must live the lie.

For the next 13 years Seb was the boy who couldn’t hear music without throwing up all over himself and anyone nearby. On the plus side, he got out of choir forever. But in keeping up his facade, Seb had to give up so much more. He missed school dances, concerts, the entirety of the Just Dance Franchise, the Masked Singer, the list goes on. At all times he had to carry ear plugs lest he be trapped in a hospital waiting room blaring top 40 hits. He had gotten good at making himself blow chunks, but if he didn’t produce the same volume of vomit as that fateful day (known as the choir incident around town) then people would start to suspect the legitimacy of his entirely real not fake allergy to music. In reality no one really cared since everyone saw through his obvious lie all those years ago, but they thought it would be funny to see how far he’d take it. In a town as small as Sheboygan gossip spread like butter, and Seb thought that if a single person knew his secret, then he may as well be dead.

But then one day, when Seb was walking downtown, he died. Or rather, he heard a voice so angelic he felt as though after hearing it he could die having lived a fulfilled life. As a result of his “condition” Seb had very little musical knowledge, but judging by what his friends had told him about pop artists this singer must’ve been someone with a voice warmer than the first sunbeam of Spring, like maybe Pitbull? His friend Paul talked about Pitbull all the time, so Seb imagined Pitbull was a true prodigy. Except this voice was 5000x better, like 5000x Pitbulls. This voice was an oasis to Seb’s ears, this voice was that sleeve of starbursts that’s all pink, this voice was Carlos Riviera, Tenor 2 in Sheboygan’s 3rd largest Barbershop Quartet. Carlos found the comparison adorably misguided, and took it upon himself to fill this cute boy in on the decade plus of music history he’s missed. From Taylor’s beef with Kanye, to the concept of Kidz Bop, to the demon that possessed Miley Cyrus before possessing Katy Perry, Carlos covered everything. When he showed Seb some of Pitbull’s music, Seb instantly regretted his choice of metaphor, but Carlos loved the nickname, and that wasn’t all he loved. Somewhere during The Rise and Fall of the Black Eyed Peas the pair realized where the love was, and proceeded to pump it nonstop together.

2 years later Seb anxiously sat next to Carlos in a booth at Sheboygan’s premiere pescatarian bowling alley “Fins & Pins.”

“Not in public.”

“Oh my god Seb, I’m literally just trying to show you this one cringy Tik Tok I found, it’s less than 10 seconds!” Seb shifted back and forth in his seat.

“Yeah but what if someone…”

“It’s 10 seconds, it’s this girl clearly in love with a cardboard cutout of Charles Manson, and I think I see a MAGA hat in the background. I know you live for shit like this.”

“Yeah, but there’s music in it! If someone sees us then-”

“Then what, Seb? What’s the worst that can happen if your secret comes out!?”

“Well, for starters, they’d probably rescind my grade school diploma since I skipped 8 years of choir, Cole would be pissed that I said I couldn’t help him move because the noise of moving furniture sounds too much like Stomp, and oh yeah, my parents would disown me! I’ve been lying to them for 15 years, you think they could love me if they found that out?”

“I love you despite the fact you pull this kinda dumb shit, of course your parents will love you! Didn’t you get over that fear when you came out to them?”

“Oh, I never actually did that. My mom saw how limp my wrists were when I sucked my thumb as a baby so they just kinda always knew.” Carlos set his phone down and let his shoulders slump. They’ve had this fight several times before, but Seb could tell something was different this time. Carlos seemed...defeated. “What’s wrong babe?”

“Listen,” Carlos said as he grabbed Seb’s hands in his own, “I’m tired of having to explain to the 15 other guys in the quartet why my boyfriend has to wear earplugs to our concerts. I’m tired of always taking the stairs because elevators could have elevator music when I told you that’s a thing movies made up-”

“It’s not! You remember that time we were helping my Grandma carry her groceries up to her place and I had to chug her gallon of milk to throw up because she made us take…” Seb trailed off realizing this was not the time.

“I just...If this is what life with you here in Sheboygan is gonna be like...then I don’t think I can do it.” Carlos slid his hands away from Seb, and started to get up.

“Carlos wait-”

Seb felt sick. Seb never questioned the thought of living his whole life without music, but the thought of life without Carlos seemed impossible. Carlos was the Hall to his Oates, the Simon to his Garfunkel, the Jonas to his Brothers. He knew what he had to do.

Seb stood up on the table, and for the first time in 15 years, he sang. His whole heart leapt into his voice, and what he lacked in experience and talent, he more than made up for with passion. The words seemed to come so elegantly and effortlessly, like one imagines Mozart composing. And when Seb finished, Carlos knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring, for he knew he would never meet a boy as wonderful as Seb nor would he ever hear a song so sweet as Seb’s “You’re 5000 Pitbulls in the Wind”

Anchor 6

Boom Roasted

By Cassidy Jackson

CLAIRE WAS HAVING a bad day. She woke up to birds screaming outside her window forty-five minutes before her alarm and had exactly zero luck falling back asleep. When she finally got up, not a single outfit she tried on was right. She looked bad in even her most tried and true favorites and eventually settled on a sweatshirt that screamed “please don’t look at me.”

She didn’t have the energy to deal with her family this morning so she timed her descent to the kitchen perfectly with the sound of the shower turning on. She quickly grabbed an apple and yelled “Bye Mom!” shutting the door before there could be a response.

It was a little bit gloomy out and Claire was already in a bad mood, so she popped in her headphones in and decided to listen to some Spotify playlist called “Sad Indie Gloom Walks” where every song was perfectly 90bpm (ideal for trudging along.) Claire had always wished she was the type of person who made playlists, but she had just recently come to terms with the fact that she should probably just leave it to the professionals after having ruined an entire party by playing Yoke Lore’s Spotify Sessions version of “Truly Madly Deeply” followed by Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” (apparently ~not~ the vibe).

She took her time and really languished in the trudge to school. It was picturesquely pitiful, her small town hardly having shaken off the morning mist. She paused when she arrived outside of school, truly unenthused for the day of education and “socialization” that awaited her beyond those walls. She headed in.

When she got inside it became abundantly clear that she in fact had plodded too slowly and was now late to class. Her 90bpm pace quickened to something more like 145 (much more along the lines of Spotify playlist “Eat, Sleep, Run, Repeat”). Her first class was actually the only class she cared about being on time to. Not because she was a particularly good student but more because her teacher was the kind of teacher who was too witty for this and had a habit of roasting people who came in late. And that was exactly the type of energy she was not going to be able to handle on a day like today.

Sure enough, when she opened the door to the classroom Mr. Mayson whipped his head around with a shit-eating grin that said “buckle up.” Claire turned red as the eyes of all of her classmates bore straight through her.

“So nice of you to join us Claire! We were just taking bets about when you might grace us with your presence.” When he caught sight of her face he added, “Who ate your bowl of sunshine this morning, thundercloud?”

Without even thinking Claire spat back, “Quit trying to be a smart ass when you are just an ass.”

BOOM ROASTED.

Anchor 7

The Power of Words or Whatever

By Anna Keating

I WISH YOU COULD tell migranes to fuck off.

I really wish you could be clever or witty and find some comment to make this little asshole of a headache go away.

It seems unffair and dumb that you can get out of a fight, win an award, or convince your professor that you definitely read the assigned reading with a comment.

Words are powerful: you can even lose thousands due to a misplaced comma. But you can't make a headache go away.

Anchor 8

Castration for the Time?

By Carly Rose Roy

TIME CLEMENTINE WAS RUNNING out of places she felt safe. Also time. She had a target on her back. She knew this but more than that she felt it. It was also becoming more obvious that her enemies were going to make a move soon. She didn’t intentionally make dangerous enemies wherever she went, Time just didn’t like paying for things and had expensive taste. She was a skilled thief, heister, mastermind, what have you, but she was also terribly terribly vain. Every time she picked a new target she told herself Time, be strong. They don’t need to know who duped them. Be brave. Be humble. But every time, she couldn’t help herself from leaving her calling card. A signed headshot. She just had such a nice face and she was so so so smart. It seemed wrong to deprive the world of a face for the skill. She doesn’t really regret it, but she’d prefer to get her coffee without so many weapons attached to her person. Call it an occupational hazard.

Time purchased her dirty chai and a slice of lemon meringue pie to go. She walked out into the bustling street casually and quickly noticed that she was being tailed. Time had little training, a large ass, and only a slightly smaller (but still quite large) brain. She, on paper, did not know what she was doing. On this street, she certainly did. She stopped walking in the middle of the sidewalk. A couple of pedestrians gave her looks but she only had eyes for the man who stopped with her. She gave him her prettiest smile and said “Charlie? Is that you? Wow I haven’t seen you since you were castrated and left at the altar.” Time began to walk towards him. He looked angry. As she got closer Time yelled, “ Oh my goodness Charlie! What on this lovely earth is that goddess awful smell? Oh no Charles you didn’t. You pooped yourself again? I thought we talked about those adult diapers,” she mock-whispered very loudly, “I know you can’t afford them since you lost your job searching stacks of hay for needles, but you know you can ask for money if you need it? I know I have a mighty fine ass but I’m still willing to help the lesser folk.” He was fuming but also blushing now. Good, she thought. Every single person, even out of earshot, was watching, nay! filming this interaction. She squeezed his cheek and whispered so no one could hear, “follow me again and I will actually castrate you.” She pressed the knife concealed in her jacket into his crotch. She felt rather than saw him swallow and nod. “Take care,” she said sweetly. Time spun in place and then leisurely walked home. For the moment she felt like she was safe but more importantly, Time felt that she had all the time in the world.

Anchor 9

Headlines of Major News Stories

By Vivian Qiu

GIRL ACCIDENTALLY POURS TOO MUCH HARD LIQUOR INTO HER DRINK AT LADIES NIGHT, LAUGHS AND SAYS “I MEANT TO DO THAT” BEFORE GETTING COMPLETELY SHITFACED BUT IT’S OKAY BECAUSE SHE MEANT TO DO THAT

DISNEY PRINCESS AVOIDS GETTING KILLED BECAUSE SHE SINGS ABOUT RELATABLE CIRCUMSTANCES WITH HOOLIGANS

BOY GETS INTO A RANDOM TROLL FIGHT IN FACEBOOK COMMENTS AND AVOIDS INSTIGATING CYBERBULLYING AGAINST HIMSELF BY COMMENTING “IT’S JUST A JOKE”

FRIEND REPLIES “NO U” WITH A REVERSE UNO CARD TO REDIRECT THE ATTACK AND DAMAGE TO THEIR FRIEND

ANCIENT PROVERB CHARACTER WHERE THEY SOLVE SOME RANDOM TOWN FOLK PROBLEM/PROVE THEIR INTELLIGENCE TO A HIGHER-UP THROUGH A PUN AND THEN PROCEED TO GET LAUDED FOR LITERAL CENTURIES

Anchor 10

Mole Problems

By AJ McDougall

THE MOLE ON TRIXIE'S NOSE had grown large enough by Wednesday that her mother called the doctor. The doctor was patient and understanding as Julia practically screamed down the phone line on the other end of the call. The Little Miss Sweetums pageant was only three weeks away, after all, and Trixie had her title to defend. The doctor promised an appointment over the weekend. There were options. Freezing. Digging. Hacking. Sawing. Julia’s mind may have wandered into fantasy during this part of the conversation. She was breathing easier, though, once she’d hung up the phone.

Trixie sat in the next room with her hand frozen halfway between her mouth and her bowl of diet cereal. Her father, who hadn’t spoken a word since coming back from the war, idly turned a page of the newspaper over to the sports section. Trixie gently touched the end of her nose. She had known the mole was there, of course, but she hadn’t considered it an issue. Fourth graders don’t generally think as far as three weeks ahead, after all.

Julia walked in, ushering her nine-year-old out to the driveway to wait for the carpool. She grabbed Trixie by the shoulders on the front steps. “Be vicious,” she warned her daughter, “if any of them come for you. Never make the first strike, but if one of them tries to come for your crown, cut deep, cut quick, and be unforgiving.”

Trixie nodded solemnly. She hoped that they would be watching a video in class today. She’d seen the TV trolley in the supply closet yesterday. She had her fingers crossed for Bill Nye.

She watched from the living room’s bay window as Trixie scrambled into Mrs. Higgins’ Oldsmobile and greeted her little friends. Julia only hoped that her classmates wouldn’t be too cruel.

Trixie’s unsightly blemish wasn’t the subject of much consternation amongst the denizens of the backseat. “Wanna see my science diorama?” Ethan asked.

Trixie smiled and pumped her head up and down. “Yeah!” She took the baseball cap decorated in puffy paint that he passed to her and turned it over in her hands. She wasn’t sure what type of science this was supposed to be, but the glitter glue was nice, she supposed.

“Hey, Trixie, what’s your favorite kind of dinosaur?” Heather asked, picking her nose.

Trixie had to think about it for a minute as she handed the hat back to Ethan, who promptly slapped it back in its rightful place on his head. “Today, it’s the parasaurolophus.”

Heather concurred with a grin. “That’s a good one.”

Mrs. Higgins twisted around in the front seat to eye Trixie. “Hey, Trix, that looks new. Where’d you get that little mole?”

Trixie’s gaze hardened to flint, and she snapped, “I got it when I was three fingers deep up in your mom’s pussy on Saturday night, Diane. Stuck my nose right up there and licked her ‘til she screamed for mercy.”

Mrs. Higgins’ mouth opened and closed, but no sound escaped. The car was silent for a moment.

Ethan looked confused. “You’ve met Nana Higgins, Trixie?”