The Sea-Wave by Rolli Page B

a gift from my cousin the writer. At first I thought it was cheap because I’d’ve rather had a real book. But then I thought it probably would’ve been one of her books, so I was lucky. I threw the memorandum book in my desk drawer. But one time when I was just so angry I couldn’t read I took it back out and started writing in it. Writing is hard for me, it takes a long time, but I’m getting better. It helps with my anger. My sadness.
    My cousin said all kinds of family drama winds up in her books, and since no one reads them, no one finds out. She still gets invited to the BBQs, and gets handshakes from the people she said were bullshitters. Writing is a kind of minor revenge, like stealing the left slipper of someone who stabbed you in the neck, which I guess to her makes it worthwhile. Personally . . .
    I haven’t decided yet.

The Angel Lady

    O ur daughter vanished.
    The woman looked pretty normal. She had long hair even though she was over forty. She had a brittle voice that made you listen carefully in case you dropped it.
    She was a beautiful, healthy girl. And she vanished.
    The whole time she spoke to us she didn’t blink. The trick to not crying might be to dry out your eyes.
    She was a prostitute. She got into hard drugs .
    I have to admit that sort of made her less angelic in my book. I was picturing Little Dorrit or something. I’m pretty judgmental.
    We found her in the Parliamentary Gardens. In a rose bush. Bleeding. They were actually white roses.
    Even my teacher swallowed hard. I stared at her like, Where do you find these people? She stared at a square on the floor.
    My daughter is an angel. She speaks to me. She hovers above me, and guides me. She forgives me. She loves me.
    Without really realizing it, I think the whole class looked up at the ceiling. All I could see was the curved mirror they put in after the shootings. In her warped back reflection the woman’s shoulders were a bit like folded-back wings.
    I looked at my teacher again. She started clapping.
    I guess it was over.

I Have No Friends

    I have no friends. It just isn’t possible. It would take a pretty weird kid to touch me and murder their social life forever. Life is tough. It might be even tougher without friends. So what.
    Every Saturday, my mom or dad takes me to the park. We sit by the water and feed the birds. One time half my class walked by, going wherever kids go. They looked at me, and not one of them smiled or said hi. But then one girl, the new girl, looked back and laughed. Then they all looked back and laughed. I squeezed my bread bag until the crumbs were just dust. I felt like the dust rattling in the bag.
    I closed my eyes hard. Then my mom said: “Jealous. They are all just jealous.” That’s her word, that’s always the word for children who are broken. I’m not sure she even understands it. Because when you’re not pretty or popular, and there isn’t even a chance of having talent, what could they be jealous of, Mom? You never really think.
    There’s a tree in the park that’s the one thing I like. It’s just a perfect small tree that’s by itself. I like to sit under it in my chair and read. Or sometimes my dad lifts me and sits me on the grass. I want to be buried under that tree. Only I’ve never told anyone.

I Have a Giant Uncle
Who’s a Refrigerator

    I have a giant uncle who’s a refrigerator or bigger. If he was really a house someone from the city would hammer a note into his forehead saying he was scheduled for demolition and please keep out. His tongue is either swollen or it sounds like he’s eating it. He can still walk but only so fast that if you don’t stop him he’ll walk into walls. He’s like a remote control man and someone is having fun with the controls. I can’t really understand him but what he’s saying sounds like “I wish I was dead.”
    My giant uncle reminds me of