day 9: sour girl

Pat slept over Friday night. He gave me a back massage and we ate at a restaurant, three pink lemonades and half of a club sandwich in a little white box, and we saw Kill Bill. Leftover popcorn, we curled up underneath the covers and woke up at 10 a.m., shared french toast and drank frosty mugs of orange juice.

Saturday, Resa and I rented The Fluffer and Better Luck Tomorrow. Porn stars and crystal meth, "cut your breakfast on the mirror," Sean should've called Brian back, yoga classes, voicemail messages, sweeter than the honey Pat licked off my neck (he told me to!).

Today I ate a shiny green apple during math class. There were two fire drills seventh period, standing in a circle. Fifteen minutes left before school ended, the principal's voice flooded the classrooms, and she told us to grab our things and evacuate the building. No one told us why. I didn't ask.

Everything's all right with Pat. I want to talk about guilt and hate, but he says his good mood will sour, a glass of milk. My feelings are hidden under my bed like magazines painted with porn. I'm still counting.