EVERYONE CAN TELL
by ClydaJane Dansdill
She liked it there because, by the poolside, time slowed. Slowed even
more underwater. She could breathe underwater. Underwater, her voice sounded ethereal. She liked
the way she looked when she was soaking wet, even now that she had lost her hair.
Can anyone tell? Everyone can tell. Leukemia had taken her heart, lungs, girlhood. Nevada blazed.
The wig made her forehead sweaty. Strands stuck to her neck. Dead hair feels wrong. Like when your
hand is asleep and you grab it with your live hand. Like when a bug crawls in your ear.
At school in Physics class, she propped her chin on her fists. No one paid attention. Why should she?
The teacher was late. Something didn’t feel right. The temperature in the room changed. The morons
around her got quiet. She reached up and realized she was bald. She whipped around. The boy be-
hind her wheezed with laughter, holding up her wig by one ginger lock. The class exploded.
She shot up from her chair. The desk clunked against her. The linoleum rang. She ripped the thing
from the boys hands, murder in her eyes. Jammed it back on her head. Ran from the school.
The concrete was warm with afternoon light. She took off her shoes, Mary Janes. Her white tights. Her
hand-me-down dress. Her underwear. She wrapped a fist in her horrible hair, lifted it from her skull,
and flung it down. She dove.
Tania Franco Klein, Proceed to the Route 2 Pool, Wig (Self Portait).
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