On Tuesday, when Denise slept over
at her friend Suzi’s place, I taped my blown-up photo
of the North Wildwood Beach
over Janis’s face.

You could still see the rest of her sticking out
underneath, but at least
I woke up to sand and surf and sun
instead of a screaming freak.

I could almost feel my brain cells regenerating.

Denise threw a fit when she came home.
She tore my photo
down,
tossed it onto my bed. “God, Lyza. You’re so square….
You should have been born two hundred years ago—
Janis is so way past you!”

I replied that would be just fine—
I’d love to live in a time
when parents of teenage girls had the right
to shoot any unwanted suitors they found slinking around
the house at night.

That shut her up for a while.