What Happened to Ruthy Ramirez

by Claire Jiménez

I wasn’t worried about Ruthy. During Christmas she had single-handedly beat up a boy-cousin thirty pounds heavier for calling her butt-ugly:

Iconic

They were pretending to fight, whipping each other with their bookbags, the way that teenagers invent excuses to touch each other because they can’t just admit, I really like you. I wish you would hold my hand.

“Every year they get worse,” she said. Not to me, but to an invisible audience living inside her. A hundred thousand Mrs. Rubens nestled inside her body like a Russian doll.

Lol

You sat there watching hour upon hour of these girls jumping each other, and it made you think of all the other fights you ever had in your life, the ones where you came out victorious but especially the ones you lost, the ones that made you silently mouth a comeback as you reenacted the fight in your head, five years too late.

Oh im not the only one who does this?

I hated English, hated how the questions could be so ambiguous and unclear; you can look at what somebody wrote a hundred different types of ways. And there on the test, the first question, What is the main idea of this passage? But in my head, there were so many main ideas, and all of them burst forward like a star when I had to sit down for an exam.

But apparently there is only one correct answer *insert eye roll

Beside us we heard the faintest sound of someone farting as they pissed.

Died laughing