Dig.

by A.S. King

I picked up the phone. There was a man on the other end and it wasn’t my father. It’s never my father.

Judging from our last fifteen flights, I can tell you that poverty is not a popular conversation choice in first class. Or any class. In any plane. Going anywhere. Which is really handy for the people on the plane, I guess.

I’ve never had a peyote trip, but going on what Dad says about it, I’d say food poisoning compares.

I pity anyone who says gimme. The world is going to be a giant disappointment for you.

The act is played out in the living-room portion of the wagon—matinee at two, dinner show at five, and a late show in case there isn’t a good movie on TV, at around nine or so. They juggle, not things but words. They dare to leap through the ring of fire that is TV news. They are contortionists of ideas. They know nothing else but this act and how to work a toaster oven.

Loretta doesn’t want you to read any more about what happens next, so she goes back to her room at the end of the hall and she locks the door behind her.

They call it freedom of speech or traditional family values. The louder ones call it heritage—as if it were in our blood to be assholes to other people, as if we’d inherited it.

I feel wrong talking about thesis statements while nearly calling the cops on a guy who’s probably fine and isn’t on the sex offender list. They teach us how to write a clear thesis statement long before they teach us how to deal with creepy-maybe-sex-offenders.

She’s pretty sure she’s in Ireland or Scotland or New Zealand or one of those places where the grass stays vibrant green all year and the sheep speak English.

“Ashley says I can’t keep the snake. Will you take care of her for me?” He rolls through a stop sign and doesn’t even notice. “Ashley or the snake?”

The straps are spaghetti style but thicker—an inch maybe—and sturdy. She makes a joke in her head about lasagna straps

“Potatoes are one thing. People are another. You can’t abandon people and think they’re going to be fine. People need things. Probably love most of all.”

A cockroach skitters by and says hello. I reply, “Hello.” It stops and adjusts its eyeglasses and says, “You know you can’t really be in love with your best friend.”

Telling me I’m not allowed to worry doesn’t mean I don’t worry. It makes me worry more, really.

Maybe all girls think this way—that our entire focus should be on getting a guy to fall in love with us. Maybe we’re all in a tunnel that way. And maybe we’re all walking around heartbroken because we just want to be loved in a way that isn’t even possible. Because, let’s face it—boys aren’t taught the same things. They aren’t taught to be prince charming or even nice, for the most part.

She watches Amber, her youngest child, move only once the others have moved. She watches her hands and the way she walks. She sees herself as a young woman. She regrets her whole life in an instant. That’s dessert.

I thought she was the meaning of life. But she’s dead. There’s something in that, but I’m not sure what.

Taking things for granted is the privilege of existence. The living don’t even think about it, same as boys aren’t scared to go missing at the mall. Same as her white cousins can drive over the speed limit across state lines to New Jersey. Same as her grandfather didn’t think twice about selling the family farm.