American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 117

my jaw. I fell onto the turf, and she ran off without apology. As pain
exploded from my cheek I saw her shoot and miss. She ran back
upfield with her head hanging low, and her coach yelled, “That’s
alright, Hadley. Good spirit, good spirit.” As Coach Hamlin helped
me off the field, I could feel the eyes of my teammates on me, their
unsmiling compatriot, and instead of applause for my courage there
was dreadful silence. “You’re so brave,” said a nurse. She squeezed
my arm and I felt myself start to float away on a powerful tide of
anesthesia. Then came the blank time. When I awoke, I saw myself
in the mirror, the horror of my new metal mouth, and though it
hurt, I smiled.

FICTION

A L LY W H I T E

99

As per my recovery regimen, I was only allowed to eat liquids:
milkshakes that I sucked through the gaps in my teeth, and tomato
soup strained to remove chunks. The codeine I took for pain gave
me mild psychotropic visions wherein it seemed like the television,
my only companion, stretched to fill the room. In the morning,
there were the loud, hectic variety shows that cut from interviews
with celebrities to news, to demos of “easy pasta meals,” to a zookeeper bringing out an alligator on a leash. Then came hours of
delicious drama—paternity tests, sexy teens, and moms who wouldn’t
stop partying. Their wrecked lives were a comfort, a ratty shawl I
wrapped around my shoulders.
My mother convinced Lonnie to let her tap into her future sick
and personal days and stay home with me. There wasn’t much I
needed, just a smoothie every once in a while, but she tried to help
nonetheless, once sitting at the edge of my bed and giving me a
pinchy foot massage, and once offering me a grape popsicle she
said I could let melt against my mouth. The rest of the time she sat
in the living room with the TV on, emailing her friends. A bouquet
of carnations arrived and I looked at the card and saw it was addressed to her.
Jack texted me. “I miss u sexie,” he wrote. “When can I see u????”
I wouldn’t let him come over. My cheeks were swollen up to my
eyes. I was thin and pale from my liquid diet, and my hair was slick
with grease. I blamed my mother.

Cat Yearning, acrylic and collage on paper, 6 x 7.75 inches