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All us girls knew about sin sought after it. Torn pieces of brown paper bags wrapped around dried corn silks secretly cured in the toolshed supplied cigarettes to wave around like those women on the soap operas. In my friend’s playhouse we practiced kissing furtive and ashamed. A high-powered telescope Santa Claus brought opened up the mysteries of neighborhood bedrooms. Once we sneaked out of a slumber party tiptoed onto an icy bridge still in our babydoll pajamas and froze our prissy asses off to watch the sun stick out its tongue at the gray world. Then there was that Halloween we rolled a septic tank into the middle of the highway and set it afire. It took about 20 state troopers two tow trucks and a tractor to move that white-hot donut. We were fairly disappointed when nobody got arrested. Our reputations weren’t the best, but at least what we were made of wouldn’t melt in your mouth.
From Rita Sims Quillen’s Some Notes You Hold (Madville 2020). Copyright 2020 Rita Sims Quillen.