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We preferred her house. Her parents went away.
Sometimes we had the whole
weekend. Her
mother made cheesecakes in twos and threes that we were supposed to
take to Mr. Peasant, Mr. Waffle. They were almost dead. By the time
I got there, her parents were gone and I'd left a note for my mother
telling her not to expect me.
She'd
give me one cake and she'd have the other. If there was a third,
we'd split it. We were about the same size, although she could eat
more. We spooned the cakes into our mouths, looking at each other
laughing. Then she got the chips and chicken, and we dipped them
into mayonnaise and catsup.
I
headed for the bathroom, waving to her. She'd be upstairs in her
private one, and by the time she came out, I'd be completely empty,
had cleaned up the toilet, studied the grooves in my ribcage,
relieved to see them, looked in the mirror, studying my dimples,
then I'd lie on the floor, balancing a yardstick over my bones.
When
she came down, we talked about boys, how happy we were to be
skinny. We went to the
basement, dipping into her parents' beer supply. We danced
around, curling our hair.
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