For the rest of the week
I ride my bike to Malia’s house after school.
She sings “Time After Time,”
sometimes to Lola and me
on an afternoon porch,
or under old redwoods
in our secret place.
One of the days, Malia comes out,
huge pink hair spiked in all directions;
giant star earrings dangle below
and pink painted circles around her eyes
match her pink dress, and even a pink microphone
she made from toilet paper rolls.
Etan! What do you think?
I force myself to say something right away.
Wow! Sparkly?
She puts her hands on her hips. Wow?
It’s Jem? I’m Jem—you know, and the Holograms?
I thought about what you said,
and I can’t wear Blankie, so maybe this?
Each day,
Malia’s skin
looks a little better.