Grief Girl by Erin Vincent

are closed, and a dull light is coming through them. The bed with the gold bedspread is perfectly made. Like it would be anything else, Erin, you idiot. They’re not going to suddenly reappear and have a snooze!
    Mum’s books are on their wooden bookshelf at the head of the bed. I’ve always wanted a headboard like it, with a light and bookshelves with frosted glass doors in the middle. Mum’s books make me angry.
    I’m OK—You’re OK.
Easy for you to say, Mum.
How to Look Younger and Live Longer.
Yeah, that worked. Were you actually reading these?
    I walk toward their double closet, which runs along the whole of one wall. Mum’s crystal face-cream jars and ring holders are already dusty and it’s only been two months. It’s strange. I can do anything I want in here. I can look at anything. Not many kids get to do that with their parents’ room. The dead sure don’t get much privacy. I must be sure before I die to get rid of anything that will incriminate me or make me look like an idiot.
    I find a shirt in the first drawer I look at. It’s one of Dad’s favorites. A half white/half gray polo shirt with a thin red line across the front, crossing my chest, my heart…how truly deep and meaningful. Very symbolic. It’s nice and big, Dad having been extra large and all. I think he stretched it with his beer gut. A man with a beer gut who didn’t drink beer. Strange. Wow, this shirt actually looks good with my pants. I quite like it, not that I thought much of it when Dad wore it.
    I’m ready for school. I feel cool. I feel fuck you. I feel like one of the tough girls from school who sit at the back of the bus snarling at all the sissies like me in the front. No one would want to mess with me now. I don’t care what happens to me, so just try it, bitches.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    Everyone at school is looking at me strangely all over again. Another Mrs. C-J school prayer, no doubt. Or are they just admiring my guts at not wearing the school uniform?
    They all seem to be looking at me and feeling sorry for me and whispering,
“There’s the girl whose parents died. What a poor, sad loser.”
    I’m sitting in the playground on the cold metal benches.
    â€œThink you’re better than the rest of us?”
    It’s three tough girls from the grade above me. The heavily tanned “we’re so cool we spend our weekends screwing surfer dudes at the beach” type. The type who pinned me and threatened to flush my head down the toilet when I first got to this school.
    â€œWhat d’ya mean?” I always tend to speak like an uneducated moron when speaking to real-life uneducated morons. It’s actually out of fear that they’ll think I’m acting superior and punch me in the face.
    â€œWhat’s with ya fancy nails and clothes?”
    â€œI—I just thought they’d look good,” I say. So much for tough and built to last.
    â€œThink you’re pretty gorgeous, do ya? Better than the rest of us?” says gum-chewing toughie number one.
    â€œYa don’t know how lucky ya are,” says toughie number two with the big red greasy zit on her left cheek.
    Lucky? I thought having dead parents would release me from their trivial bullshit. I thought girls like this would respect me more. Isn’t it cool to be a tortured teen?
    â€œYa don’t have to answer to no one now,” number two continues.
    Hmmm…it seems not everybody at school got into the groove of the mass prayer session. Some people obviously don’t think I needed it. I’ve hit the jackpot.
    â€œYeah,” says moron number three. “Ya can do whatever ya want now, ya can come and go as ya please. I wish I didn’t have parents that I had to ask permission for stuff. I wish I was in your shoes.”
    â€œYeah? Well, step right in. I think they’ll fit
ya
nicely. They’ll be a bit tight and