Girl A

by Abigail Dean

And then there was JP, and I prepared my self-respect and served it to him, delicate, on a plate.

And in the first few moments you might try to stretch, forgetting that you couldn’t. And then you could begin the first checks of the day: for new pain, and secretions in the night, and the rise and fall of your sister’s ribs, shallower some days than others.

It had been a few years since I had shared a bed, and there had been times when it felt like my whole body craved the comfort of it. To sleep, I would twist my limbs together, pretending each belonged to another person.

“I’d say that your parents would be proud,” she said. “But let’s be honest—” I kissed her on the forehead. “I’m proud,” she said. “Does that count?”