Beautiful by Amy Reed Page B

sweatshirt sleeve, squeeze it in mine, feel it tiny and bony and fragile and cold, feel it squeeze back.
    â€œYou’re going to freeze to death,” I tell her.
    â€œI know,” she says.
    â€œLet’s go home.”
    Her body tenses. “I don’t want to,” she says.
    â€œNot to your house, to my house.”
    She almost whispers when she says, “Really?” like she’s afraid I’m playing a joke on her, like she’s afraid to get her hopes up.
    â€œYeah,” I say. “I think my mom might actually cook tonight.”
    I stand up and Sarah stands with me. “Is she a good cook?” she asks.
    â€œNot really,” I say. We are walking now. “But it’s better than microwave dinners.”
    â€œI’d be happy with microwave dinners,” she says. We are almost gone. We are at the part where the overpass turns. We are almost out of sight.
    â€œHey, where you going?” Ethan yells just loud enough that we can’t pretend we didn’t hear him.
    â€œHome!” I yell back. He starts skating over. We should have walked faster.
    â€œI thought we were gonna go driving later,” he says, which really means parking behind an abandoned building or at the end of a rural road so he can fuck me.
    â€œWe’re not feeling too good,” I say. “Probably the flu.”
    â€œYeah,” Sarah says. “Like we’re going to throw up.”
    â€œGross,” Ethan says, his face twisted in disgust like the thought of me puking has forced him to reevaluate my attractiveness. I think about kissing him good-bye, but decide against it.
    â€œBye,” I say, backing away.
    â€œBye,” says Sarah. We are almost gone.
    â€œWait a minute,” Ethan says. “Where are you going with my sweater?” He has this annoying way of calling sweatshirts sweaters, like he’s too stupid to know the difference.
    â€œSarah forgot her coat,” I tell him. “Let her borrow your sweatshirt and she’ll bring it back tomorrow.”
    â€œNo,” he says. “Then I’ll freeze.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” Sarah says. “I don’t need it.” She lifts her hand to the zipper and I grab it, pull it back down.
    â€œSee, she doesn’t need it,” says Ethan.
    â€œYes she does.”
    â€œTell her to give me my sweatshirt,” he says, raising his voice.
    â€œNo,” I say, and it is the loudest thing that has ever comeout of my mouth. There is something thick and hot and boiling up out of my stomach, into my chest, into my throat and filling my head, throbbing, red, heavy. Something is filling me up and the noise of it is so loud I cannot think. I am bursting. I would explode right now if something touched me.
    Sarah and Ethan look at me funny, like they don’t recognize me, and I realize I have done something very wrong, that whatever entered my body and moved my mouth must leave or something terrible will happen. I must make it go away. Just like Sarah, I can make things inside go away.
    Leave,
I tell the thing inside me.
Die,
I tell it, and just like that, everything is back to normal, like nothing happened. Then it is just skinny, quiet me again, numb and exhausted, with nothing inside but air.
    â€œOkay,” Ethan says. “Whatever.” He has the same look on his face as when he imagined me puking.
    â€œThanks,” says Sarah, not looking at him or me.
    I have to kiss him now. I have to make him forget the voice that came out. I have to remind him that I am who he wants me to be, not someone who tells him “No.” I pull him close. I bite his ear. I put my mouth on his. I put my hand on his crotch, squeeze gently, feel him hot and sweaty through baggy pants. When his breath gets heavy, it is safe to leave. I back away. I say, “Bye.”
    He looks at me, heavy-lidded, and says, “Are you sure you don’t want to go