{"product_id":"dear-medusa-isbn-9780593485736","title":"Dear Medusa","description":"\u003cb\u003eThis searing and intimate novel in verse follows a sixteen-year-old girl coping with sexual abuse as she grapples with how to reclaim her story, her anger, and her body in a world that seems determined to punish her for the sin of surviving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is more than a story about sexual violence—this book is about race, sexuality, love, and how anger can be a catalyst for healing.\"\u003cbr\u003e—Gabrielle Union, bestselling author, actress, and producer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSixteen-year-old Alicia Rivers has a reputation that precedes her. But there’s more to her story than the whispers that follow her throughout the hallways at school—whispers that splinter into a million different insults that really mean: a girl who has had sex. But what her classmates don't know is that Alicia was sexually abused by a popular teacher, and that trauma has rewritten every cell in her body into someone she doesn't recognize. To the world around her, she’s been cast, like the mythical Medusa, as not the victim but the monster of her own story: the slut who asked for it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlicia was abandoned by her best friend, quit the track team, and now spends her days in detention feeling isolated and invisible. When mysterious letters left in her locker hint at another victim, Alicia struggles to keep up the walls she's built around her trauma. At the same time, her growing attraction to a new girl in school makes her question what those walls are really keeping out. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"[This] fierce and brightly burning feminist roar…paints a devastating and haunting portrait of a vulnerable young woman discovering the power of her voice, her courage, and her rage.\" —Samira Ahmed, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eInternment \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Hollow Fires\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003e Two starred reviews • NYPL Top Ten Teen Books of the year • SLJ Best Book of the Year \u003cb\u003e • Bank Street Best Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e • YALSA Top Ten Title • ALA Rainbow List title • TAYSHAS Reading List Top Ten • \u003ci\u003eLA Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Prize Finalist \u003cb\u003e• Florida Teen Reads List\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This novel focuses less on re-examining the Medusa myth and more on channeling the archetypal energies of Medusa’s story, exploring how victims are commonly cast out and what it takes for them to reclaim their power. \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eDear Medusa\u003c\/i\u003e is a heavy read, but a necessary one\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"Emotionally raw verse critically portrays one teenager’s experience dealing with the aftermath of assault, and provides a sharp look into cultures built on oppressing survivors’ voices....\u003cb\u003eboth vulnerable and fierce\u003c\/b\u003e, Cole boldly examines agency, bodily autonomy, and internalized misogyny.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Publishers Weekly, \u003c\/i\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"Cole’s prose is \u003cb\u003ebeautiful, thought-provoking, and filled with emotion\u003c\/b\u003e....This novel is one that readers won’t put down willingly.\" —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eDazzling with clarity, blistering with anger\u003c\/b\u003e....In shimmering verse, Cole breathes life into each young woman....This book is as wide in scope as it is economical in its language. \u003cb\u003eIlluminating\u003c\/b\u003e.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eCole’s novel in verse is a raw and uncompromising view into the sexualization of young women. \u003c\/b\u003eShe peels back the layers of Alicia’s trauma, fully immersing us in a world where we are cradled in Alicia’s pain and then her subtle pinpricks of joy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Booklist \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Racial and cultural awareness…and the highlighting of multiple forms of sexuality and \u003cb\u003ethe power of women supporting women\u003c\/b\u003e help broaden the story’s scope.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eHorn Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A #MeToo novel-in-verse that tackles purity culture, slut-shaming, and female rage all while honoring survivors with a plot that centers the healing journey of the main character. \u003cb\u003eThis book is brutal and ugly in its truth, but gentle and gorgeous in its embodiment of hope\u003c\/b\u003e.” \u003cbr\u003e—Ashley Woodfolk, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e “20 Great Queer YA books to Add to Your Reading List”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eDear Medusa \u003c\/i\u003eis \u003cb\u003ea searing read\u003c\/b\u003e, both emotional and so, so smart. Olivia A. Cole takes on questions of systemic sexism and racism in \u003cb\u003emasterful verse\u003c\/b\u003e—you ache alongside her characters as they learn to speak the language of justice. \u003cb\u003eDear reader: get ready to have your heart beautifully broken\u003c\/b\u003e.\"\u003cbr\u003e —Brittany Cavallaro, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eA Study in Charlotte\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eFurious and gorgeous and raw\u003c\/b\u003e—an unflinching exploration not only of a teenage girl’s anger and grief but her capacity for love and joy....Alicia’s voice will not turn you to stone; it \u003cb\u003ewill sink its teeth into you and not let go.\u003c\/b\u003e”—Nina Varela, author of the Crier's War duology\u003cb\u003eOlivia A. Cole\u003c\/b\u003e is a writer from Louisville, Kentucky whose essays have been published by \u003ci\u003eBitch Media, Real Simple, \u003c\/i\u003ethe \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times, HuffPost, Teen Vogue, Gay Mag,\u003c\/i\u003e and more. Olivia is the author of several books for children and adults.Friday, August 31\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The worst part of working fast food is the name tag\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e because there’s always somebody’s mom with coupons\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e who thinks they are somehow being cheated by the teenager\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e at the register, and their eyes always dart down\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to your chest to look for a way to be in charge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “Listen,” she says, and I see her eyes laser in,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e search out my name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Alicia. You overcharged me for my mozzarella sticks. Now,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e do I need to ask for the manager or are you going to make it right?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Make it right. Ever since last year, everything\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e sounds like justice or\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e its burning absence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e She thinks she’s been done grievous wrong\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e by the two dollars extra on her waxy receipt\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and my mouth is supposed to be apologizing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but my mind is on everything else:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e • the whole school\/world calling me a whore\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e • Sarah cutting me out of her life like a tumor\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e • my parents, the wood chipper of their life between them\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e In the end I just say, “Ma’am, I’ll do my best.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’ll do my very best.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e We both know\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e she’ll still call the manager over,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e will still make the world a witness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to all the things she thinks she deserves\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e even with my smile so bright\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e it shatters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e It’s my last weekday shift before school\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e and it’s just girls on the clock, no creepy manager,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e no too-old guys pretending they’re still in high school\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and eyeing you over curly fries.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Slow day. No construction workers,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e no cops expecting free food,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e no guys in suits who refuse coupons\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e because they want you to know\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e they’re rich:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e just teenage girls who don’t go\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to the same school,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e carrying different gossip\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e not about each other\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and thus unimportant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Stephanie is the shift manager\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and she’s only twenty-one so\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e when there’s no customers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e she lets us turn up the lobby music\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and all of us sing along.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e The final day of August is like a guillotine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e separating September from the rest of the summer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in one clean slice, the red sun bleeding out\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e over my feet as I circle the school\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in my Meat Palace uniform\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e one more time before I start junior year.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e It’s empty. No one but me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e would ever come to school while the freedom\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e summer drops like gold confetti\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e still sparkles on our shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e But I like it like this, the quiet, the way\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the beige bricks drink up the sunset,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e taking on a color that reminds me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of a desert. Dry, baked,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e vicious.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e I’ve never been anywhere but here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e My feet take me to the track, like they miss it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Maybe they do. Maybe they remember\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e how it felt to transform\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e from girl to mustang\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e with grateful lungs heaving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Freshman year\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I could fly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Then sophomore year happened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e I look back at the pink bricks,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e settling into a deeper shade\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e now that the sun is sinking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e I’m sinking too, down onto the bleachers,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e the metal warm against my thighs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This school is empty of people\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and full of memories\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and I don’t want\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e any of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e My mother offers to iron my school uniform and even though I want her to, I say no,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e because sometimes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in this place\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e where I am\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e it feels good to refuse\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e help, because saying yes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to even something like an iron\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e feels like saying yes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to everything else\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e when my whole life\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e has become a pipe bomb\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e full of pieces\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e that explode in a furious\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e no.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Tuesday, September 4\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The school bus stops on my block but I don’t get on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e I’ve been taking the city bus all summer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and I like the way it makes me feel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e like I’m living in a different world\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e than the people who are supposed to be\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e my peers. What’s the difference?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e At least on the city bus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can pull the string,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and it makes me feel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e like I’m in control.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e I can get off whenever I want\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e wherever I want\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e even if my destination\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e is predetermined.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e On the city bus I can still wonder\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e what the people there think about me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e whereas at school\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e once I walk through the door\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I already know what they’re all thinking,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e what they’re all going\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to say\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e about all the versions of me they think they know,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e laid alongside\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e all the girls I was before\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in stark contrast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Flashbacks\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e They are like ripples on a pond and they begin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in my earliest memories of myself:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Playing in the fountains at Elwain Park\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e with no shirt on, five-year-old bird\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e chest\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Eight and pointing at bras in Target, my brother\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e wearing them like hats while my mother\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e shopped and I laughed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Sarah getting her first bikini, me ten\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and silent and feeling a brand-new envy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e grow in like ivy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Me eleven\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Me twelve\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Me thirteen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Me fourteen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Curious and curious\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Me warming up\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Me sneaking to buy my first thong\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Me excited for someone\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e anyone\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to notice\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Me kissing Michael Strong\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the day I got my braces off\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e just to feel what someone’s tongue felt like\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e sliding across new teeth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Me hearing about what good girls\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e do and think and say\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and always feeling like a neon opposite\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e even if only in shadow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Me thinking I had secrets until last year\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e when I learned what it meant--\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e what it really meant--\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to hide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e There’s always a white kid who says “Why do the Black kids sit together in the cafeteria? They segregate themselves.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e And I’m a white girl too so what do I know\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but I think the answer is so obvious in a school as white\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e as this one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e where Halloween parties still feature blackface and redface\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e where the student council only barely voted\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e (5–6)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to maintain a special events calendar for Black History Month\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and the cheerleading squad is all white but shouts yas queen, werk! between routines.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Dawn of Day 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and we’re all in the cafeteria waiting to be dismissed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the swell of the student body heaving as if on a ship at rough sea,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e all of us deciding where we fit, where to squeeze in, if anyone we hate or love\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e has rendered certain sections unsittable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e The girl who says it this year is skinny and blond,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e a sophomore, and her whole table murmurs and laughs,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e casts glances at the three tables where the couple dozen Black students,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the half-dozen kids from Mexico and El Salvador,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e all take refuge in each other’s presence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Why wouldn’t they\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e when to sit anywhere else in this sea of narrowed eyes and fake laughs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e would be like throwing yourself overboard?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e I’d never say that I consider my pain equal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but I can say I know\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e how it feels to step onto a ship\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and be confident that everyone on board\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e is watching you, thinking that you’re not a sailor\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but a creature from the deep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e The only text messages I get are from coworkers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Mariah: can you take my shift tomorrow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alicia: what time\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mariah: 3:30\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mariah: . . . ?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alicia: I’m in school, sorry. Yes I’ll take it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mariah: I thought you were dropping out\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alicia: I wish\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e And from random dudes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Him: Thinking about you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alicia: I know what that means\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Him: yeah;)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Him: free tonight?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alicia: tomorrow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Day 1 was a success\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e in the way that surviving a haunted house\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e is a success:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e I walked through the halls and saw\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e lots of ghosts\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e but never\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the Devil\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The garage is full of smoke\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e and someone who doesn’t live in this gray\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e house might think something is on fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e If they looked closer they would know nothing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e is, the smoke they see only the last remains\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of what has finally ceased to burn. What’s left\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of my family is a cold smolder. Divorce\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e is only white-hot for so long. If you’ve ever watched a fire\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e you know it eventually gives way to a gray zero,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e smoke coming from nothing, piles of ash.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e The smoke is my mother sitting in a lawn chair\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e cigarette in hand, coffee can next to her for the ashes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She talks to her mother\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e or her sister\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e sometimes a friend from college\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and from where I stand in the kitchen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can hear the low blur of her voice,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the clink of the can when she taps,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the slide of a beer across the concrete.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s only the two of us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e My brother and my father have become\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e heavy apparitions. They exist but on a different\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e plane. My mother is here with me but she’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e also somewhere else--on nights like tonight\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the garage is a distant universe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I would need time travel to cross.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sometimes I stand at the door and try to listen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e while my leftovers spin in the microwave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Occasionally she laughs,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but mostly she cries.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e My parents met when my father was still mid-divorce\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e with his first wife, one child already somewhere\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in Montana.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was 31 and my mother 20\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and she was dancing at a college party\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e when he saw her,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e her hair the same black as fresh asphalt\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but softer, and swinging,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and he never danced\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but that night he danced for her\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the way birds in the wild\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e spread feathers and perform.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e But like geese\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and not doves,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e my father takes many mates\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and even when my mother still waxes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e romantic about love at first sight\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e (even now)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and the way the music slowed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e when their eyes met,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e sometimes I wonder\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e (since the divorce)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e what he was doing at that party\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in the first place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Portrait of a day\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Dawn and toast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Bus and its flickering yellow light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e School and its silent rivers of judgment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Boys and their fingers in my belt loops\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e even when we don’t know each other.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e No Sarah. No nobody except\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e a girl in physics who talks to me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but she talks to everybody.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Weeks 1 and 2 down and I skipped art\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e both weeks to avoid the hallway\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e where “it” happened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Lots of ghosts, but no Devil.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Bus. Meat Palace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Repeat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Thursday, September 13\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sometimes people put notes in my locker’s grille\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Sometimes one word, sometimes several,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e never more than a sentence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e One at the end of last year said\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003esex isn’t a hobby\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and I had so many questions, the first\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of which was\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eis putting weird notes in people’s locker a hobby?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e But that’s the voice in my head\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e that says I’m too mature\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e to let these things bother me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e That voice is a little\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e overconfident.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Still, I had to laugh\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e when I looked up \u003ci\u003ehobby\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in the dictionary app\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e on my phone:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e hobby: (n) an activity done regularly in one’s leisure time for pleasure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e The note-leavers didn’t waste any time this school year\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e so when I see the paper poking out from down\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the hall, my stomach sinks, even as the mature\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e voice in my head says something tough\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e like \u003ci\u003elet’s see if their handwriting has improved.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e It has.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Neat blue pen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Circles dot i’s.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e But this one doesn’t feel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e like the others.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e It says:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e WHAT’S DONE IN THE DARK\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e WILL BE REVEALED IN THE LIGHT\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e and if I didn’t know Sarah\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e was twelve miles away at her new\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e school, I’d think it was her\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e issuing one last barb--it sounds\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e just Bible-thumpy enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e There are more words on the back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but I don’t read them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e I may be a lot of things\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e but a masochist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e isn’t one of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Friday, September 14\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I have two shirts for work and only ever wear one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Terry is the new manager of the restaurant--transferred in when Joey got caught\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e setting up a fake robbery, emptying\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the safe into the backseat of his car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e No bag or anything. Shit for brains.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e But I would rather have Joey than Terry, who is older and goes to church and wears a tie\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e every day like he doesn’t know this is a Meat Palace\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in a nondescript part of town.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e He lurks in drive-thru while I’m working, tells me to take my nose ring out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He pretends he has to stand very close to me to see if I’m wearing it or not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He thinks because I am sixteen that I don’t know every trick in the book.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Maybe I don’t. But I do know\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e there is a book\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e and that Terry pulls pages from it when he\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e leans close to see my nose ring\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e slips close behind me when he’s restocking napkins\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e stands close when the cashier steps out to take her break\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Close close close\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Never quite touching.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I know it will come--it always does\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e when men like Terry take your silence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e for consent\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e or better yet\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e total\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ignorance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e They know if you can claim not to know\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e that they can too,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e like a hand down a teenager’s bra\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e is just a mistake\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e a slip in a puddle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e an agree to disagree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e I can hear my (ex) best friend’s voice now, Sarah:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “If you hate it so much then quit.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “If it really bothers you then why haven’t you said anything”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e At the time (before she cut me off)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I didn’t have the words that I have now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I didn’t know how to say\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “This world is full of wolves. I’ve already\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e met worse wolves than Terry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Terry is just a dog. Running from a dog\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e At this point,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e at this juncture\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in my career with wolves,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e feels like admitting I’m a rabbit\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e when every day I feel more like a bull.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sometimes wolves hunt bulls\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and they win. But sometimes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e they get the horns.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e The first wolf I remember was bagging my mother’s groceries.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e I was fourteen and we’d just come from the pool.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e (That doesn’t mean I was wearing a bathing suit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That doesn’t mean I was wearing shorts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e People always wonder what I was wearing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Why\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e when it comes to girls and wolves\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e do we let our brains look for reasons\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e why she deserved to be prey\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e before we notice his fangs?)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e His name was Adam. He was twenty-one--\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I learned this later.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At the time he was scanning my mother’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e broccoli and bread\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and when her eyes lowered to her purse\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e his rose to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Sometimes I remember the way the blush\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e felt crossing my cheeks and wonder\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e if I was to blame after all. After all\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was pleased to be noticed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e An older boy,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e a man,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e someone with perspective.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not many people really noticed me at school\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e (before “it”).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e But Adam did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I thought he saw something my peers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e didn’t see. I thought maybe in that moment\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e under the fluorescent lights\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I had transformed into something worthy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e My father came back then from buying\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e a lottery ticket and if he saw Adam’s eyes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e he pretended not to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e My father never liked conflict.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He avoided it like chewed gum\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e on the sidewalk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Maybe if he were different\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e everything else would be too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e You are the ghost in the ghost town when people pretend you are dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e When I started sleeping with guys, my friendship with Sarah became an hourglass.","brand":"Labyrinth Road","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300215050469,"sku":"NP9780593485736","price":18.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593485736.jpg?v=1767724866","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/dear-medusa-isbn-9780593485736","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}