I’m sitting in the middle, squished between M and J, trying to keep my legs together so that I don’t accidently brush up against one of them. The peach fuzz on my upper thighs stands at attention as if reaching out to grab on to anyone who gets too close. The boys sit twisted in, facing each other, looking over me; it’s like I’m not even there. Barely noticing my frizzy red hair as they swat at each other. Pudgy, sweaty hands that lead to dirty and jagged fingernails, coming directly at my face every few seconds. I want to die.

The backseat of this car smells like oatmeal cookies – if oatmeal cookies smelled hot, heavy, musky, sickeningly sweet and stale. Really gross oatmeal cookies. When I breathe in deeply, the air catches in the back of my throat and I feel like I might puke. I close my eyes and try to manage my discomfort. I squeeze my eyes shut as tightly as possible and squint; I feel the creases that develop over the bridge of my nose. I close my lips and push them up, under my nose, resting the tip on my top lip. It feels cold, unlike the rest of me – sticky with sweat. I push on my chin with my index finger, deep, but when I release the pressure it springs right back into place. I open my eyes, giving up. There is no escape.

I’m wearing my black leotard – it has short sleeves and a skinny, stretchy belt that clasps in the front with a little, lacquered, lavender heart, directly over my bellybutton. My thighs stick to the tan, vinyl seat cushion and I rock back and forth and from side to side, trying to free one leg and then the other. I press my palms down on either side of me and try to lift my butt into the air in hopes of airing out my underside – but the car is bouncing and I’m not that coordinated anyway. There is a rip in the seat, right next to my right leg. I gingerly peel back the fabric, assuming no one will notice as I investigate, and I shove my index finger deep inside. Immediately I retreat, I’ve found something sharp. I know it’s probably just a spring, but I also recognize it could just as easily be something with teeth that one of the boys let escape. I reach down to un-tie and re-tie one of the short, leather laces on my white moccasins with pastel rhinestones.

M and J and I are all on our way to gymnastics. Like everyday, M wears red and J wears blue. Color coding helps friends and teachers tell them apart – but I don’t need the clue. I always know the difference. M is louder and picks on me more – he has a small scar in front of his left ear from the time that they were playing t-ball in the backyard last summer: I was there, as the cheerleader. He slid into a base and cut himself on a hidden sprinkler. J is nicer to me – he doesn’t tease me about my freckles – but he’s also less interested in being my friend. He would rather play with his G.I. Joes, or the Care Bears Magic Van that is buried deep in his toy trunk. He has trouble reading too – I think he needs glasses. And one time, I saw him throw up. It was white and looked like chunky milk.

A few weeks ago, we had a sleepover at their house. We spent the afternoon in the backyard catching bugs in nets and then looking at them through a magnifying glass from a spy kit. For dinner we had hotdogs and french-fries and grape juice. I changed into a long flannel nightgown, that itches at the neck and wrists where the elastic is tight and rubs against my skin. They changed into Batman and Robin pajamas that have capes. We had oatmeal cookies from a box for dessert. But when it was time to get in bed, it was still light out and I didn’t understand why we were going to sleep so early. They said they would stay up all night and protect me – with their bug nets. But by that time, I had decided I wanted to go home.