I sat under trees and the kids from the neighborhood would join me. There, in the shade we created our next game. We played “Friday the 13th” and “Halloween.” But also Miss America and then, when there were enough boys around, cops and robbers.

Storms came in the afternoon and we loved to hear lightning and thunder and we even got doused with rain, staying out as long as we could before our parents called us in.

It was hard to believe that I could be anyone I wanted to during those three months. I was the Bionic Woman, Wonder Woman. I rarely played a male. Although I was. I could get away with such things before the kids turned older and started having opinions that became stronger than my own.

How did that happen. How did I end up with the least squeaky wheel on the block?

That afternoon, in the ballpark it was concluded that I was a sissy and a dark cloud formed over my fun, threatening more than just lightning and rain. I slept on it. Morning was better; the clouds blazed red on the horizon. By evening I thought the sky would rain Skittles. Until I tasted them. My tastes needed to be altered, it was concluded. That is what how I spent my summer.

I’m assuming its a mother and her twenty-ish year old son walking across the street, licking their individual ice cream cones. But I could be wrong. I take advantage of appearances. And one licking an ice cream is one of the biggest advantages you can take. People always look vulnerable with ice cream cones. It’s almost worthy of pity. I hate that this stops me from eating ice cream, much less licking at it.
I don’t want people to pity me. Or assume anything about me. That I have no mother. Or father, for that matter.
And that I’m lactose intolerant.

Now John,

I no longer hold you dear. You understand why. But I do feel it necessary to beholden to you a measure of flack for all the nasty things said between us. It was indeed a two-street and I have since veered off the side of the road and called Triple A for roadside assistance.

Nevermind, no, I won’t be needing your help.

Not now, John. Not ever.

My Nana has had two face lifts, three nose jobs, and liposuction on her stomach and hips. Her breasts have been augmented. I am not allowed to call her Nana.
I can only call her Helene. Even her name has been augmented.
It used to be Helen.

Please release me; I do not protest too much. I am unsullied and I just need to go to my nine-to-five without long monologues on why I shouldn’t go to my nine-to-five.
No one has been poisoned, kidnapped, disparaged. And yet I am sometimes called to speech–some rousing, fiery, delectable shape of my tongue, that wants to blame a sack of sherry rather than my ongoing loose form of bipolar disease.
I want to be a king.
But I do not want to be murdered.
Yes, that about sums things up.

I didn’t like the way the psychiatrist told me to take my hands away from my mouth and answer his question. I hadn’t meant to be rude. I was only 14. What did I know about manners?

Well, according to my brother I should know enough to listen and keep my hands at my side. “He’s trying to help you,” my brother said. “Just play along.”
So the psychiatrist asked me who my friends were when I said I had friends (only after he said I didn’t have any). I should have just let the doctor win.
So when he said “Who?” I just stared at him and ran through possible names. The last kid I’d said two words to was almost a year ago and that was only because he’d dropped his pencil. I was a true loner.
So I made up a name. I said “Penelope Williams.” Penelope had always been my favorite name.

The doctor wrote down my answer in his notepad. Suddenly I felt sorry more sorry for Penelope, who did not exist than for me, who did.

That was a real breakthrough. For me at least.

It was found along the corridor, leading to the classrooms. It looked so alone, deflated–as if someone underneath it, who’d worn it, had been snatched from our Universe. I say “our” because school is often like its a universe unto itself. It’s not really accurate to call it “our” universe because it’s never felt like “my” school, so to say “our” is going beyond a lie.

Nevertheless I felt such a kinship with that trench coat–the sheen of the its beige lightweight material.
A boy said the trench coat belonged to a girl because of the way it buttoned up.
I had no idea what he was talking about. How would he know this if we were all just standing around looking down at it, without having tried it on, or even having lifted it off the floor to see the array of buttons. I couldn’t see any buttons.

Hmmm, I wondered. Was it even a trench coat?

She was an orange tabby with just a bit of white on her face to look as if she’d dipped into something floury or pasty–and had not bothered to hide the evidence of her mischief.
The process was thus: she crept out of her cage and began exploring, slowly at first, with her nose and the her the rest of her body joining in. She sniffed along dark and light corners. I stayed in my own and watched, understanding that too much too soon would not for this cat or probably any cat.

She didn’t have a name yet. Yes, they had given her one at the shelter but I wasn’t buying it. I wanted to name her something simple like Mary or Susan. But then as I watched her move about, more sure of herself and her surroundings, it became clear to me her name should be Catalina, like one of the first Pontiacs I owned.

She was long like one; and moved smoothly as such.

The little boy was told to stay, as if he were a dog. And at his age, it seemed a fair assessment, of his training. He did stay and waited for his mother to come back.
Instead his father came back. He looked disheveled, tired. A bit miffed.
He took the boys hand and led him into the park. The little boy couldn’t resist running through the field, toward the swings, the father following, then hoisting his son up on the saddle, pushing slowly then more and more until the the child swung as high as the father thought appropriate.
His mother arrived a couple of hours later. She complained about the chocolate ice cream on his shirt. The father complained about how long she took for her appointment. The boy stayed, without being asked by either parent.