I wore the white dress I sewed myself—I hemmed it neat and everything—on the day the marionberry sky cracked open like a cadaver’s chest. At recess. In the middle of me twirling and turning. Shimmying chiffon.
Until the rain revealed me.
Everyone laughed; hell, they guffawed and choked as they chortled, their pointing fingers wet, calling me “Pepperoni.”
Playground patrol barked my actual name, shouting for me to “Get back here!” But I clawed up the school fence, refusing to stand around while my brand became permanent, like when our blue-haired teacher floats away in a memory and uses Sharpie on the whiteboard.
Maybe I could outrun the name.
Part of the chain-link fence chewed into my upper thigh as I broke free. I staggered home, blubbering, using my arms to conceal what my handmade dress rendered clear as a July day. I appeared both nude and like I was having “my monthly.”
Small steps of blood, tears, and rain followed me into our carpeted house with its sun-bleached satellite dish, and I thought about ringing my working mother to cool my burning cheeks. I raised the coral phone but then slammed it down. Our boxy TV always knew how to love me best, especially when I hugged its furry, staticky face. Though soaked and sad, that exact hug burst out of me when my favorite pastel cartoon fell away, making space in the square for a news bulletin. The same one on every channel. Entire Middle School Perishes From Freak Tornado.
I was “Pepperoni” only to the dead.
