Storm Warning

by Nellie Wilson

“If it isn’t the Wicked Witch,” a too-familiar voice rings out in the gymnasium. No. No fucking way. I whirl around to see the starring actor in my nightmares, a redheaded devil who tricks you with a cheeky smile and a relaxed attitude.

She’s a witch, I remind myself. Is she a good witch or a bad witch? She’s a pretty witch, my traitorous brain says.

Cresting the hill to thirty means that anytime someone asks me to be out of bed after ten p.m., it’s a personal offense.

No matter how many degrees and publications I acquire, I still get butterflies when I realize a boy likes me.

I have a moment where I’m envious of Julian. He’s a guy. He can just choose to not follow directions. Unfortunately, I’ve found that the best way for me to change things is to pretend to follow directions and engage in small-scale rebellion.

Wild. Anyway, the director of FEMA said something like ‘you know a storm is really bad when a Waffle House closes,’ and apparently, the local government there uses the number of Waffle Houses open to gauge a storm’s effect.”

“I never got why saying that a woman wasn’t like other girls was a good thing. Of course I’m like other girls. Other girls are cool.”

Time to dust off that old wedding Pinterest board from 2012.

“You’ve noticed all this about me?” Julian asks. “I thought you hated me.” “Even when I hated you, I still noticed you.”

“Hey, Dorothy,” he says against my temple. “Wanna go find a tornado?” I turn around and smack a giant kiss to his mouth.

I know I’m an adult. I pay taxes. I vote. I can legally drink. I’m a grown-up woman type. But looking around at everyone else, I feel like a fraud. They’re adultier adults.