FREAKISH INTERLUDE!
The Freak is on the side of a hill in a forest, fully dressed. She’s still thinking about Solanum tuberosum and going to college. She liked what the professor said about poison.
She looks down at the house—the house with the abundant skylights and the pristine deck that she can’t see under three feet of snow. The Freak has been watching these people for a year and a half now. There are only two of them—an old couple. She wonders why they live in such a big house by themselves. It’s got to be four thousand square feet. That’s a lot of interior paint.
Flickers.
Lands next to the filing cabinets.
The Freak knows half-wit high school bitches are not the real problem. She knows what happened after she ran from the movie theater. But no one else does.
Some nights she flickers here, to the storage room of the police station, and reads the files. The files are mostly bullshit. Statements from people like Kelly Pointer. Lies. Rumors. Her gym teacher went on record and said The Freak was “promiscuous.” Her father said “she never listened.” Her ex-boyfriend in California said “last time I saw her, she smelled like turpentine.”
Some days The Freak wishes she could accordion herself into the filing cabinets and pop out when they’re opened. Maybe then someone might pay attention. Might ask her about how she loved to help her elderly neighbor. Might ask her about her favorite stuffed animal. Might notice that she was just a sixteen-year-old girl.
She thinks about what the professor said about history books. “A convenient narrative,” he said. Same as The Freak’s file.
What chance does a girl have when her dad won’t shell out for a bra and tampons? What chance does a girl have when she can’t learn about sex at school but can learn how to douche with turpentine on her phone? When her parents are arguing machines? When her father is a yo-yo and her mother can only think in oil paints? When she’s moved all the way across the country because her family can’t locate its owner’s manual?
“Fucked if I do, fucked if I don’t.” That’s The Freak motto. But if she could do it all over again, she’d just let Kelly Pointer punch her in the face.
Flickers.
The Freak lands in an empty office. She spins in a leather chair behind a desk crowded with papers and a nameplate that reads WILLIAM MARKS. The Freak shuffles through the papers to see if any are about her. She finds an invitation to a wedding—the kind with the tiny RSVP envelope and two choices for dinner: beef or chicken. No vegetarian option.
Bill and Ashley are getting married. The Freak doesn’t know who Bill and Ashley are, but she pictures them tuxedoed and gowned up, surrounded by flowers and loved ones. She pictures a live band because it’s much classier than a DJ. Maybe jazz. Hard-rock cover band, even.
Beef or chicken. Jazz or hard rock. Married or unmarried. Happy or unhappy. There are no variables anymore for The Freak, but she really thinks there should be a vegetarian option.