Book Girls

I always knew the rules. I'd shoulder dictionariesto school, take long library lunches, tuck a pencil

in the tight swing of my bun. Every Christmas I'd askfor glasses. Every recess I'd sit in the nook, nose

in a book, a notepad propped on my knee. Therewas no summer reading for me, just reading—stories

I'd smuggle to bed, like a lover, womenwho'd wake up beside me, better than a sister.

I loved Meg Murry and Anne Shirley(her vestigial vowels, her carrot-topped temper)

and every March, except Amy. I'd binge documentaries,sneak cartoons, so I knew to like Velma, hate Daphne:

even then I saw it as a choice, to be one or the other.I never dreamed of white dresses, only liked veils

of mist, ate cake without fear of rings. Nights, I'dcrawl out my window and rename the stars. My friends

were strange like me: Bug Girl and Bird Girl, squattingin muck, walking the long road home. When a man

slowed his car to tell us to smile, not a single one did.We were knee-deep in the grasses, unable to see

our feet, watching the goldfinches, the paper wasps,the budding clouds, all moving at their own pace.

...