Fried Eggs

In 2003, Eddie Moretti, the head of VICE Films, and Suroosh Alvi, VICE co-founder, tracked down and documented the lives of the only heavy metal band in Iraq, Acrassicauda (pronounced a-cross-i-cow-dah, meaning "deadly black scorpion").

Happening almost by accident, the story of Heavy Metal in Baghdad was originally printed in an issue of VICE as a short article. After years of venturing back to Baghdad and having many personal conversations with the four band members: Marwan, Tony, Faisal, and Firas; their story was made into an intimate portrayal of the band's desire to simply stay alive and headbang to their music in peace.

Moretti and Alvi's main goal was to capture the day-to-day lives of innocent Iraqis who were forced to leave their home and become part of the largest refugee crisis in history. Moretti filmed Alvi sitting with members of the band in open, public settings like their hotel lobby in order to gain their trust - initially, the band was apprehensive of the filmmakers intentions. As the film progresses, we see the band and the two filmmakers form a close relationship. Near the end, there is an emotional moment inside the band's new home in Syria, as they watch footage of themselves from their experiences of the previous years.

Scenes of everyday Baghdad were also caught on tape. From their hotel room's balcony, Moretti filmed bombs blasting in the distance. Both he and Alvi voiced their anxiety countless times, knowing they could be shot down and killed at any moment, despite being armed and wearing bullet-proof vests. Walking outside was near impossible; their drivers often cautioning them to get off the streets and back to their hotel. Stopped by undercover police officials, Moretti's camera was put under scrutiny. Fortunately, he managed to keep the footage that became Heavy Metal in Baghdad.

The unique aspect of the documentary, which also included some clips of the band's live shows, is that while it is directly about a band, the power of music, and how it can connect people, it is also indirectly an in-depth, street-level look at the disastrous aftermath of the Iraq War. Ironically, while music is meant to connect, the members have endured nothing but hardship, having to leave their families in Baghdad and starting over in Syria where they work illegally for ridiculously low pay.

Screened during the Toronto Film Festival, there was a Q&A session after the film, where Moretti informed the audience of their failed efforts to bring the band into the country - the band was flat-out rejected by the Canadian Embassy. He also offered an adapted message from the band's Blog, originally written in slightly-improper English - they learned the language by watching American films and listening to American music, and as a result, use the f-word in every other sentence and refer to most people as "dude."

"So the last thing that hits our mind is to seek your help to get us out of here where we going to be able to live the dream of our life and being out there on stage with you wherever you are. Let the metal unite us let the metal rule. Yours, AcrassicaudA," Moretti read to the audience.

Moretti and Alvi ended the night with hopeful thoughts, encouraging everyone to vote for the film in the hopes of receiving enough press to give the band's story extra attention to get them out of Iraq. More information about the film and where you can donate money are available at www.heavymetalinbaghdad. com.

Published by The Medium

Pixar’s tenth animated film, UP, is filled with adventure, mortality, love and is coloured with humour throughout.

Carl Fredrickson, a 78-year-old widower does all he can to fulfill the dreams he feels his wife left behind. Although the film is in 3D, the real pops and shocks come from the astounding, rich love a man can have for a woman, and the lengths at which one will go to end up where they always dreamed.

With a cute and suspenseful subplot about saving a bird, the themes of wilderness and care for animals is carried out beautifully with Russel, the little explorer who ends up pairing up with Carl for the adventure; this movie takes innocence to a whole new level.

“The detail, and emotion in this movie is unreal,” said one guest at the advanced screening of the film.

Check out the film in 3D at your local theatre, out May 29th.

Published by Faze magazine

I have a glass table in my kitchen - it’s hard, cold, and transparent. I refuse to eat on it without a table cloth; I don’t like people being able to see my legs or feet while I’m eating, it’s intrusive. The floor is marble, it’s hard and cold too. It’s cold all year round; in the winter it’s cold from the weather, and in the summer it’s cold from the air-conditioning. I wear socks in the house at all times. When I don’t wear socks, I wear slippers. If I can’t find my slippers, I find some socks. The countertop is dark brown marble with swirls of black and gold spots. It looks like a little mean army living inside staring at me while I cook. Dirty dishes are piled high in the sink, sitting in dirty water. I don’t really mind to wash the dishes, I know someone has to at some point, but it’s the dirty water that I hate. The oily water stains my hands and chunks of old food get stuck underneath my nails. I hate that. The cupboards are brown and thick holding stacks of glasses and plates and bowls. They are organized in a very specific way. Everything fits perfectly into one another. No plates are allowed in the stacks of bowls. Bowls aren’t allowed in the stacks of plates. Everything has its own place. Forks, knives, and spoons, lay inside their own little section inside the top drawer near the dishwasher. Spoons aren’t allowed in the forks section, knives aren’t allowed in the spoon section, and forks aren’t allowed in the knives section. Everything in its right place. The fridge is filled with containers filled with leftovers. It’s always filled with containers filled with leftovers that end up in the garbage anyhow. We fill the containers with leftovers so we don’t feel bad for being wasteful. The containers end up in the piles of dirty, oily dishes that will stain my hands eventually. The dishwasher is silver, and the door only stays down if the bottom rack is pulled out. The dinner plates belong in the left hand row horizontally, the small bread plates line up vertically on the right hand side in front of the horizontal rows of soup bowls. If organize things that way, you can fit more. When you fit more, you don’t have to run the machine as often. The glasses on the middle rack have their own spot, tall glasses on the right, short glasses and mugs on the left. There is a top rack that can be pulled down overtop the shorter ones for espresso cups. The utensils work the same way on the flat top rack, everything should be placed next to its own kind so they can fit into one another and maximize the space.

Chug-a-lug down that drink
Yell and scream and throw a fit
Sip it back, rot your brain
Indulge in such traumatic pain
Kill your liver, your perception too
Might as well sniff some glue

They will get you wait and see
Paranoia for eternity
Drink and drive, drive don't drink
Vodka is the missing link
Whiskey helps to feel the bliss
Better than that one first kiss

Live in a bottle, no bulletproof glass
Don't be present at your funeral mass
Chew some candy, break a tooth
Snap some shots in a photo booth
Smile don't frown, hold the bottle high
Choose your favourite coloured tie

Learn to love the colour pink
Chug-a-lug down that drink.

All the houses on my street looked the same - save for minor details; the colors of the garage doors and the landscaping on the lawns - small homes; semi-detached back splits. Despite the fact that I was a tomboy - filthy, bruised knees and dirt under my bitten fingernails, with grass stains on my clothes mother would curse over - I had, nonetheless, a typical little girl’s room. Walls painted soft baby pink and white furniture. I slept on a single bed with a white and gold head and foot board. The blanket did not match the decor, but it was warm to cuddle with so I opted for comfort opposed to visual appeal. (I was six, what the hell did I care about decor anyways?) A white wicker shelf stood to the right of the foot of my bed. I filled it (my mother filled it, rather) with dolls that weren’t meant for playing with, but for looking at. Two in particular; a white porcelain one wearing a navy blue velvet dress with lace trim, and hair that fell off because the glue became un-adhered to her head, the other, a larger doll with long brown that fell in waves and the prettiest painted eyes a doll could possibly be given. And so these dolls sat in my almost indistinguishable house, in my girly room that I couldn’t relate to, on the wicker shelf my mother decided to fill.

It was a dead hour - quite late - and the city, I’m sure, had retired for the night as I had tried to. I lay in bed wide-eyed and stared around my tiny room. My eyes caught the dolls. They continued to sit, the same content expression on their faces. As that expression remained unchanged, both dolls turned their heads and looked my way. In that exact moment, my closet sporadically went up into flames. The dolls watched me while the room became warm as the heat of the fire burned my eyes. The pink on the walls turned orange. The fire, however, didn’t spread, and the flames remained the same size. In what seemed to be only seconds, the heat felt bearable and my eyes hurt less. Oddly enough, nothing around the burning closet caught fire. After a few more moments, some neighbors came into my room - how they got in my house I didn’t know. They sat on my bed, one by one, as more and more people came in to see the phenomenon, until my bed was bombarded with bodies.

Between blinks, I saw a kangaroo hula-hooping. At the sight and sound of a red flashing siren, the hula-hooping came to an end. I was the only one who saw this hula-hooping kangaroo. In the meantime, the closet continued burning, and the people continued watching. It was regular and idle. No one seemed to mind, no one said a word. My room was filled with silence, not even the flames made a sound. It was something out of a silent film. We all sat - the neighbors, the dolls, and myself - and watched my closet burn.

When I woke, I quickly sat up - tears in my eyes and I’m certain I was sweating. I panned the room over - the dolls still sat, the closet was unscathed and there were no more people inside. I called for my mother. She held me in her arms in a way she hadn’t done for some time. She hushed my fears while stroking my forehead, pushing the hair away from my face. We stayed that way for a few minutes. She put me back to bed, gave me a glass of water and told me it was just a dream, to rest.

I lay under the blanket that didn’t match the decor, that was on the bed which had been covered in people, in the typical little girl’s bedroom with the closet that had burned, with the dolls my mom placed on the shelf which turned their heads to look at me, in the house that looked the same as the others.

With a steady hand, Gloria swiped brown liner over José's shaved eyebrow. She drew a long, arched sperm shaped brow. José quickly turned to face the mirror.

“Shit girl, it's gorgeous!” he gasped. If the apples of Gloria's cheeks weren't covered in rouge, he would have noticed her blushing in delight. Taking the liner from her hand, José attempted a sperm brown of his own. His hand shook on the end of the sweep. Gloria grabbed him a moist cloth and he wiped the brow off his face. Gloria had taken José under her wing to turn him into the perfect woman. He didn't care to lose his parts, just liked to cover them up under leopard g-strings, fishnet pantyhose, and tight hot pink leather skirts. He spent all his time in front of the mirror, transforming himself into bombshells, surrounded by posters of Raquel Welch, Bridgett Bardo, Farrah Fawcet and the rest of the angels that littered his bedroom walls. As for Gloria, she desired José more and more the tighter his skirts and higher his heels. His painted lips were like luscious strawberry's, pouting wet as if they were full of juice.

José's 11 year old brother, Alfie, sat cross-legged on the bed admiring Gloria is all her sequenced glory. While his friends were outside building forts, riding bikes, and getting grass stains, Alfie was falling in love. Gloria had little attention left over to give Alfie, but when she did she'd tousle his hair and prance around the room in patent leather heels. “Hey Alfie, do you like this shirt?” Gloria asked while twirling herself into a twinkling tornado. If she actually waited for a response, she would have noticed him blushing in delight. She continued to twirl, singing along to Cyndi Lauper's She's So Unusual. She attempted to grab José's hand to suck him into her tornado, but he wouldn't peel himself away from the Latin glamazon reflecting in the glass.

Gloria initiated another try at the eyebrow. “Alfie, do you have a pencil sharpener?” He left to fetch the tool. While they waited, Gloria tried something new to get José to pay her some mind. She ran down to the kitchen to get a tea bag, and then swooped into the bathroom. She covered her jaw, chin, and upper lip with Vaseline and then covered that with the contents of the tea bag. It appeared she had grown a short, stubbly beard in seconds. Returning to José's bedroom she asked him to pass her a pair of socks. He threw them over to her without turning around. Gloria stuffed them into the crotch of her tight, high waisted jeans. She threw on a baggy t-shirt, shoved her ponytail into a baseball cap, hunched her back and stuck out her pelvis.

“Eh hot stuff,” she asked in her best interpretation of a man's seductive voice, “how do I look, mama?” José turned around to look at her.

“Girl, you are one ugly man! Take that shit off your face! The question is, how do I look?” he lifted his newly drawn sperm brow. Just then, Alfie returned with the sharpener and handed it to his brother.

“Alfie, what the hell did you do?!” José squealed at him. Alfie was cut, bleeding, and hairless where his eyebrows used to be.

“I shaved them off. Where's Gloria?”

Last night was the last of my delusion. The finale felt like intentionally losing grip of a surfboard and letting the wave completely crash over me, carrying me underwater all the way to shore. It hit so hard; in an instance my head became flooded with all the visions of the familiar surroundings of my past - waking from my nightmares and being rocked in my mother’s arms, standing on a snow covered hill and looking up at the cotton-candy night sky, tasting my tears the way I did as a child, and the fire in my closet the night my dolls turned their heads. My entire chest collapsed; I thought air would never fill my lungs again. She spoke to me, with a reassuring tone this time. She told me to be brave and to hold on just a little while longer. She suggested that I get out of bed and write my emotions down on paper so I could remember them more clearly, but unfortunately I didn’t take her advice. Thus, my description of the end of my delusion is not as authentic as it could be; this is all I can recall right now. Yes well, tough shit, idiot. Now you suffer.

After almost drowning, I think I actually slept well last night. This doesn’t happen often. For about a year now, I’ve feared the nighttime, for I know I will be walking along the poolside with my eyes half closed, unable to fully open them. I’ve been feeling the same way I did when I was twelve years old. For a few months, Sundays became the enemy - as the days of the week passed, I was petrified knowing that Sunday was fast approaching. For some reason, to this day I don’t know where the fear came from, I would do nothing but cry all Sunday night long. Seriously, you’re fucked up, what the hell was your problem? It got so bad I made my mother sleep with me some nights, with my bedroom door fully opened and my lamp turned on. Once again, I’m afraid to sleep, to try and close my eyes. She whispers to me what it is I should do, shouldn’t do, and should have done differently. Her ideas and opinions always clash with mine. “Just say it already, it’s going to be okay, it’s for the best!” I fight back as best I can but can’t ever seem to tune her out. “Don’t you want to wake up tomorrow morning and NOT feel like a bag of shit?!” When she’s feeling very persistent she stands me in front of the mirror. She asks me to repeat what she says. It’s like I’m rehearsing for my lines and praying for the courage to say them aloud. I wish she’d just leave me alone. Oh shut the fuck up, you know you need me AND you know I’m right.

Last night, somehow, the courage found me. I made my performance as flawless as I could and when it was all over I could breathe again. I held nothing back, the words made sense and the vision was becoming so clear I felt somewhat free. It was ridiculous, pathetic, glorious and new, all at the same time.

This morning was rather pleasant, and I felt wonderful. I got out of bed at a quarter past eight and dressed for school. I could feel her smiling at me, and when I looked in the mirror I realized I was smiling too. I don’t need the medication my doctors prescribed me, or the advice of my therapist I suddenly stopped seeing. I feel happy now. You really should have at least called her to say you weren’t going anymore. That’s completely rude, you should be ashamed. I have finally put things where they belong. I know now that you can’t choose or control your nightmares, but when I’m awake, I can fully open my eyes. I can choose my own reality, and so I decided to bring my delusion to its end. Finally, you stupid fuck.

Listening to four girls cackle at the table next to mine, faces I can't see spit nonsense at each other: some guy who didn't call and one says to just forget him 'cause he's such a dickwad, and the cackles are a piercing pain while I try to focus on this paper that's due soon (due in a few days and I cant seem to get it started 'cause there's no damn place to focus), and I throw dirty looks their way; with my eyes I say please shut the fuck up but their eyes never meet mine because girl with the long, black greasy hair has her back to me and they're all too busy spitting out cackles, but for the first time, 'cause today's not the day to deal with cackling and I've had about enough, I get up out of my seat and stand over the one with the puff of curly brown hair and finally, their eyes meet mine; lashes covered in black goup bat up at me, I stare at the top of their heads—three inch thick black roots, frizzy strawberry blonde, thin and greasy black, a whole puff of brown curls—their faces covered in thick, orange make-up that streaks around their chins, and then, do you mind not being so loud, you're SO damn loud! and I'm about to slap someone right in the mouth, don't you have any damn respect? slips outta my mouth, their eyes open wide and as I turn away to sit back at my table I hear the girls who put their make-up on in the dark spitting out cackles about how that girl with the dark and sagging bags under her eyes came over to their table and said something about being too loud.

Wanting her all to herself,
watching the wild spring out of her like a burst of red fire
she fans the flames with sheets woven in green,
trying to put them out slowly.

Wild flames are not meant to be tamed
she reassures her to resist -
wanting to light her sky orange
the fire spreads far and over.

This blaze isn't for keeping,
it won't ever be spoken for one's own
and in the novelty of your night,
I want to make your shadows dance.

"You're so fat. And ugly. Fat pig." If you said hello or asked to borrow an eraser or told the kid in front of you she dropped her pencil or tried to play skip rope at recess there was no doubt every reaction or reply would refer to your fatness. Popularity depended mostly on who was skinniest and prettiest. If your tummy had an extra layer of pudge, you were automatically a teaser target.

"Can I have some of your Snickers? You should share, you don't really need anymore Snickers."

Sofia Blitnor sucked in her belly. Her father just bought her a new pair of jeans because the old ones wouldn't zipper up anymore. Her fat spilled over the tops of her waistline only slightly now, but if she sucked in hard enough, it almost didn't spill over at all.

"I'll trade you my apple for that Snickers. You should have this apple, you can pretend it tastes like Snickers."

It was hard not to hate Jenny Weldney for her blond hair alone. It streamed out the top of her head like skinny yellow ribbons. Every strand was like another little skinny girl taunting Sofia about her belly or sausage arms or back rolls.

Jenny snagged the Snickers from Sofia's hand. Her pink glittery nail polish reflected in the sunlight as she peeled away the plastic wrapping of the chocolate bar and sunk her square, white teeth into the nuts and caramel. Noticing the string of caramel hanging off her chin, Jenny stretched her tongue out to scoop it up, and slurped it into her mouth. A piece of nut was stuck in between her two front teeth, but it wouldn't matter, not to anyone who walked by. Devouring the last of the bar, she swallowed hard, like pressing down a spoonful of fudge, and with that long, pink tongue, she swiped the nut from between her front teeth.

Sofia stood, watching her Snickers melt away, down into Jenny's tiny bowl of a belly.

How many Snickers would Jenny have to eat to get as fat me?

The afternoon melted away like caramel in Jenny's mouth. Sofia sat on her front stoop, waiting for Jenny to come back with a chocolate bar, or even that apple. She waited for an opportunity to confront forgiveness and make God proud. Pressing against the cement of the stoop, the fat of her thighs dimpled like orange peel. She ran her fingers over the bumps.

The last thing Sofia Blintnor's mother, Jacklyn, had taught her, before she left Sofia's father and vanished from their home, was the word "propaganda." They were walking through the magazine isle of a Walmart when Sofia stopped to stare at Kate Moss' waify torso. Jacklyn was trying perhaps, to make her understand skinny little girls, the world into which she was about to abandon her for a short while.

There were two worlds, anyway. In one, her father came home late from work, black under his fingernails, rolled under his car in the garage, repaired odds and ends of things needing fixing and dispensed dollars to her mother when necessary, and her mother, home all day with a clean face, pressing shirt collars, baking cookies that made the house smell happy, pouring detergent into the washing machine, on and off the phone with her sister in a different country, and praying by her bedside that her own mother, who was far away in that country with her sister, would be ok. These worlds were for Sofia full of kindness, patience and independence, like her mother herself. She would clutch Sofia, and with fingers pressing into the fat of her arms, say, "You're a good girl, you're such a good girl," or "don't ever change, not for anything in the world," or just as likely sit on her bed and cry with worry that she was herself, a bad daughter, for not being able to help her sick mother. She was sweet with information that Sofia couldn't yet use: God is everywhere and carries you when you need to be carried, the perfect banana bread needs a whole teaspoon of vanilla, the media abuses children emotionally, premarital sex is a sin, Martha Stewart's Christmas wreathes are too costly to make but do make lovely gifts. Sofia pushed through Jacklyn's domestic ideals, asking her not to plug the iron in and watch a movie instead, and would rub her back and bring her tissue telling her she was a good mommy and that grandma thought so too. Jacklyn had grown up a church girl with no care for glam or pointy hip bones, and when Sofia would cry about being called two ton tessie at recess, Jacklyn would eject her from the first of her two worlds, the house, into the second. The outside, the playground. The skinny terrain.

"If someone calls you fat, tell them God will only punish them for their cruel words," Jacklyn said. "Don't be ashamed of how you look, God made us all differently." She'd pulled Sofia away from the covers of fashion models, explaining how the people who pay them, pay them to eat even less than they seldom do, so that little girls can feel bad about themselves and buy make up and dresses and shoes that will help them look and feel better. "Don't let me hear you say that you're ugly," she said slowly, sternly. "Thats the one word you should never use, because as long as you have a good heart, you are never ugly. Who says that being skinny like a toothpick is beautiful? Who says that a little meat on your bones is ugly? People want you to feel ugly so they feel pretty. You just love yourself and turn the other cheek when those girls at school tease you." She pulled Sofia in close and tucked her beneath her arm. A piece of brown hair was falling out of the fastening pin, falling away from the rest of the brown hair clumped under the pin's pressured hold.

"A 16 year old girl in Spain died because she stopped eating. She wanted to model, and she did, but she's dead now. Reading those fashion magazines will only poison you, those girls at school who tease are poising themselves already. Thats why they tease you, because they are poisoned. Listen to your mother, I'm the one who loves you."

Jacklyn wasn't fully responsible for what she said, Sofia knew. She was naive because she didn't grow up as a fat girl. She was only scared for her. Sofia's role was to unravel what she said and try to believe in ninety percent of it, to make her proud.

"That lovely woman who moved in next door is Mary Slym, she's a school teacher, she teachers elementary school and is of our Catholic faith and she reads at mass on Sundays. I actually heard her read last week. Her daughter is your age, she looks like a sweet girl. I bet you two will be best friends before the end of summer.

"D'you wear make up?" Bella Slym asked, the first day they met.

"Only at home in the bathroom. Like when my mom's asleep and stuff." Sofia said. Bella pulled a large, pink Caboodles kit out from her closet. Lipsticks, nail polish, eye shadows, blushes, powders, creams, brushes, sponges, compacts. They'd been used, some the pressed powders thin and empty in their middles, lipsticks worn out flat, not like the sharp edges Cindy Crawford would apply on the Revlon commercials Sofia has seen on TV. "BELLA, BELL OF THE BALL" was written in large, curly letters across the Caboodle kit.

"You know, I'm so sick of pink lipstick. I've really been liking red lately. It's so much more fancy and mature. The girls at school are such kids with their pink lips. Like, grow up. Don't you like red better than pink?"

"Red is nicer. More like a lady."

"Yeah, very lady like. What color does your mom wear?"

"My mom? She doesn't wear lipstick really. Mainly that Vaseline stuff, because she says it makes her lips not get all chappy. She's got some same Vaseline stuff for her hands. They're always cracked and chappy."

"D'you have last year's Holiday Barbie? She's got red lips."

"No." No Holiday Barbie's from any year Sofia almost said. She found an artifact on Bella's dresser, a pair of scissors of some sort without any blades.

"That's an eyelash curler, to make your eyes all fluttery like the models. Want to see a silk gown?"

Sofia nodded mutely, dropped the eyelash curler. Bella Slym was an exasperating breath of fresh, purified air. Sofia was already jealous, wondering how long she'd be able to keep her to herself.

They crept upstairs. Mary Slym has a whole closet for herself, one so big you could walk right into it. She had a built in organizer, with drawers and slots to put jewelry and hats and shoes in. The drawers were lined with red velvet, filled with gold and silver and charms and other shiny stones. Hanging on the back of her closet door, was a long plastic bag of sorts, a long zipper running down the middle. Bella unzipped it, and the silk gown was just that, long, cascading eggplant purple silk, with thin straps and a very low cut neck line.

Bella led Sofia to her playroom, where they made Barbie change her outfit three times before deciding on what Ken would think she looked best in. The room smelled like flowers, or berries. The whole house smelled like flowers or berries.

"Barbie's dress is almost like my mom's gown. You know my mom paid a lot of money for that gown, even though the lady she got it from gave her a discount since she shops there a lot. I cant wait 'til I fit into all her dresses and stuff, she says I can have 'em all."

"That’s lucky. I bet all her clothes are really nice."

"Well, I don't want her church clothes, she doesn't look beautiful in her church clothes, they're so, ugly. But she says it's inappropriate to wear sexy stuff to church 'cause God will be offended or something. Whatever, God made her like that so why is he offended? Makes no sense."

Sofia looked at Bella's hair and eyes, her fatless belly, took it in. Sofia wanted to slice the tire of fat off her own torso. Slice it off or stick the end of the Central Vac vacuum inside herself and suck all the fat out.

Bella Slym was a week and 2 days older than Sofia Blintnor but walked around in her mother's high heels like a whole decade older than their nine years of age. It wasn't age separating them, but the oodles of skinny girl things inside Bella's Caboodle. Their worlds were separated into the compartments of that kit, skinny girls in one slot, fat in the other, and while they were in the same grade that first year, Bella Slym played in the skinny slot while Sofia Blitnor played in her fat one.

On the Caboodle playground of that fourth grade year, there was a large group of neutral kids: the regular, boring, in between, neither here nor there kids, who jumped rope, played sports with the boys, read books, did their usual business, getting on well with out a second thought of it. But then, the two opposing sides, the skinnies and the fats, the former, who are too pretty and fashionable and cool to merge with the others, who engage in only one game with the boys: hard to get, and spend most of their lunch hour and recesses discussing what slobs the fats were, and the latter, not that they were a group as a whole, but they were individually their own group, that being a joke in itself, for their size, but mainly because they were just so tormented that they didn't engage much with anyone, not even eachother. The boys had their own Caboodle kit separation, but for the girl fats, the Sofia Blintnors, boys were so completely out of the question they cease to exist.

Walking to and from school, Bella Slym would chit chat the chitter chatter that her other skinny friends were interested in chit chatting about, while always a few steps behind, Sofia Blintnor's footsteps would go unheard, unnoticed, even by Bella, but quietly and secretly Sofia knew the segregation of that kit. She felt ok about it because she felt she was walking where she belonged, on a trail her mother could be proud of, a trail that was distant from the propaganda of poisoned skinny minds. She was content to walk home behind them, thinking about her mother far away in that other country, sitting next to her grandmother's bedside. She knew her mom was doing what she thought was the best thing, because maybe, she just thought that God would carry Sofia for her. When the walks home would come close to their end, Bella would slow her pace and let Sofia catch up, and would carry on with their steps, saying first words like, "You gotta see this new nail polish my mom got, matches that turquoise sweater you have almost perfectly, come in and I'll paint your nails for you," in a way that seemed to negate the segregation of the day.

They spent their days watching Christy Turlington strut her stuff down the catwalk, and when Bella Slym's mother was out getting groceries or buying a new dress, they'd try on all her clothes and have runway shows of their own. Sofia was pleased because though she was fat, she felt skinny in Mary Slym's adult clothes.

"So like, your mom's gone forever? Or just until your grandma dies?"

"Yeah I guess so, I don't know. She said she'd be back before I knew it."

"Well the good thing is you get to wear make up to school, because your dad's always so tired I bet he doesn't even notice you got it on."

Fifth grade went the same as the fourth. Difference was, in fifth grade, Bella Slym had grown more beautifully into her nose and her cheek bones seemed to be hallowed out a little more like the sharp and round cheeks of Linda Evangelista, and her legs had grown longer which made her that much taller, and over all gave a sense of a much skinnier Bella. Sofia Blintnor on the other hand, had gained an inch around her arms alone, with a larger and softer ring of fat around her waist, her eyebrows seems to come in fuller, and a bad haircut left the fringe over top those brows so short they frizzed up into a puff of unmanageableness that added to her weight and bulkiness. Every once in while they would do their dress ups and fashion shows and make-overs, trying on Mary Slym's new shoes and Bella's new nail polish. Sofia had nearly perfected the polish application; seldom did she get any on her cuticles at all.

During a rainy lunch hour in June, Sofia had gone to the washroom to re-apply a lipstick Bella said she could have.

"Look at Miss Piggy trying to be pretty. Do you think lipstick makes anyone think you're skinny? It doesn't make you less fat. You're fat. Lipstick doesn't matter."

Sofia wiped the color off with the back of her hand. Red smeared across her plump skin. She shoved the lipstick into her pocket.

"Where'd you get that, anyway? Your mom? I bet she's fat too. She shouldn't bother with lipstick either." Red as dark as the lipstick flushed Sofia's face.

"What's your problem?" Bella Slym said, emerging from one of the stalls. "Like, don't you have anything better to do?"

For the first time, the worlds of the skinnies and the fats collided like peanuts crushed between teeth. Sofia stood, red faced, fat, hair frizzed, silent. She wanted to squash the girl for talking about her mother. Her mother was not fat. She wanted to defend her, with justice, and spit and slap and scream. But she couldn't bring herself to act out that way, she thought that if she did, God will tell her mother that she didn't turn her other cheek.

"She's just pissy because some fourth grader showed up today with the same jacket as her. She's upset her mother bought it for her, she's embarrassed that her mother has no style. She's one of those moms who go to the grocery store wearing big coats and slippers with socks. No style at all. She's taking it out on you, forget her." Bella had a funny way of making Sofia feel better. Jacklyn was one of those women who went to the grocery store dressed like a slob. "I don't need to impress anyone, God doesn't care what I look like," she used to tell Sofia. Sofia was upset at her mother now. For having no style. For being away. For having birthed her a fat kid.

The first day of sixth grade, Sofia woke up early. She spent an hour getting ready, flat ironing her hair, spraying, squirting, squeezing hair products into her hands. She tamed it, holding the shorter parts down with her mother's bobby pins. She'd grown taller over the summer, but the squishy, pale layer of fat remained. Her chin had grown another chin underneath itself. She thought she looked ok. Presentable. Waiting patiently on her doorstep, she sat alone, trying not to pay the dimples on her thighs any attention. She waited for Bella to walk through her front door, dressed immaculately, no doubt. But Bella never showed.

Come on, Bella, where the heck are you?

Alone, Sofia walked to school. She would have rather been walking behind Bella than walk alone. She brought her walkman, knowing damn well that there would be no chatter from the mouths of skinny girls to listen to. Do you know what it feels like for a girl...do you know what it feels like in this world...for a girl... Except Madonna didn't know how it feels for a fat girl. She switched songs. Like a Prayer.

Three whole weeks of school had gone by. Sofia gained 2 pounds. All her make up was stashed away into a shoebox with the words SOFIA, SO FAT across the top in purple marker. She made the letters round and bubbly, and tucked the box away in her closet. Bella was gone and Sofia felt like wearing make-up without Bella's opinion of it was wrong, like a sin, like going behind Bella's back. Despite being angry with Bella for disappearing without a word, she forgave her.

During lunch recess, Sofia's eyes caught the skinnies heckling Pam Heff, a girl her age but a good 15 pounds heavier. They were throwing chocolate covered raisins at her. One hit her in the temple, and finally, she got up off her layers and headed inside.

The next recess, Sofia, feeling bad and sympathetic, went over to Pam, who was sitting alone on the only piece of grass that was near dead, and sat next to her.

"Those skinny girls are total assholes. Seriously, I want to just slap them in the mouth." Pam said.

"Yeah I know, you gotta just ignore it," Sofia said, "They're just dumb."

Pam picked a chocolate covered raisin from her shirt pocket. She pressed and circled it between her thumb and index finger as if to check for its edibility, then popped it into her mouth. Sofia's gaze shifted from the saliva that was collecting at the corner of Pam's mouth from the sucking of the raisin and noted how Pam's hair had a course and frizzy texture. Pam spit the raisin in the grass. Her eyebrows grew close to each other. The fat of her thighs pushed through the seams of her jeans. Sofia sucked in her belly, pushed it out, sucked it in, the pushed out again.

Bella Slym knocked on Sofia's front door with a bony, bronzed fist.

"Her stranger," Bella said when Sofia answered the door. "Miss me?"

"BELLA!" I heard you went away or something." Sofia closed the door behind her and they sat on her front steps. Bella's hair looked touched by the sun, it separated in streaks. She had mascara on her lashes in large, hard clumps. Black goup gathered in the corners of her eyes, traces of black liner smudging under her bottom lashes. No lipstick, just gloss.

"No one in Florida wears red lipstick, only gloss. Their so tanned, way darker than me, you probably think I'm so dark, but I'm not compared to them, so they don't really wear bronzing powder either. I mean, I did, because I'm pale next to them, but only a little. And everyone's blond! My mom let me get a few streaks, aren't they nice?"

A woman, that Sofia faintly recognized but couldn't place and ultimately passed off as someone who must sing in the choir at Sunday mass, was walking by when she overheard Bella's declaration of her new streaks.

"A child ," which sounded like chi-old, said the woman, "should not have poison put onto her scalp to make it a few shades lighter. You should be pleased with what God gave you."

Bella looked at Sofia, and then Sofia looked at the women.

"It's just a little sun-in, no big deal. We're just kids, happy with what God gave. Didn't you play dress up when you were a kid?" The woman exhaled deeply and kept walking. Like thinking, and they talk back.

"I am not a kid, Sofeeeia. Maybe YOU are, but I AM NOT. That was sooo embarrassing. This isn't dress up." Bella's eyes were the hugest Sofia had ever seen, mainly on account of her expression but also from the allusion all the black around them gave.

"Oh come on Bella, I didn't want her thinking you were giving in to like, what the whole world wants you to be."

Well at least I don't have to wear it 'cause I'm fat was the only poison Bella could spit out. Sofia stood up, belly spilling over, wet under the fat of her arms. She waited for Bella to say something, anything, anything that could redeem her and give Sofia the chance to forgive her. But there was nothing. Bella left Sofia's doorstep, long tanned limbs, clavicle like soup bowls, a black mess around her eyes.

Sofia carried her box of make-up to the curb, ridding herself of the lipsticks, nail polish, eye shadows, blushes, powders, creams, brushes, sponges, compacts, and the need to suck in her belly.

Bill,

The weather here is great. I swam with dolphins and met a couple from Guatemala. They’re on their honeymoon and won’t quit it with the smooching. Nice people, but I’m about this close to puking over it.

Let me get to the point, Bill. I’ve been giving us some serious thought and after riding Rudy’s back –one of the dolphins—I realized that we’re probably not right for each other. Truth is, Bill, the dolphin trainer, Jose, told me that my aura’s weak. He told me that it’s begging for some freedom, some clarity. Said that when he watched me ride Rudy’s back he could see my soul. I won’t lie to you, Bill, ‘cause you deserve better than that, but I let Jose take me for dinner the other night. I resisted a number of times Bill, believe me, I did, but he insisted he’d help me find myself. I need to know who I am Bill, you yourself know how lost I’ve been feeling. This trip is making me more alive than I’ve ever felt in my whole life. What I’m saying is, you don’t want me to feel dead inside, do you Bill? In time I know you’ll find someone who’s already found themselves. For the love of God, Bill, please try to understand.
I hope this postcard finds you well. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever be back.

Sincere Regards,

Janice.

After two, long relentless years, my mother died of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in her hospital bed. I sat beside my mother, surrounded by my family, with my hand on her chest. Her eyes rolled rapidly under their closed lids. Her parted lips sucked air in and out. While my immediate family cried loudly cursing the Lord, my mother’s heart beat under my hand slowed until it didn’t beat at all. I kissed her face. I draped my arm around my sister who had planted her face into the bedside to cry. My father cried, saying in Italian that she was his angel. With the weight of the sound of their pain, I sat, with my mother dead by my side.

The morning of my mother’s wake, I tore my closet apart trying to find enough black to wear. I decided on the only pair of black dress pants I own, and borrowed a black fitted sweater from my sister. My hair cut short, curling tight behind my ears. I rummaged through the front door closet for shoes. I pulled out my Kelly green Chuck Taylor All-Stars. Sitting on the second last step of the wooden staircase, I laced up my shoes and pulled the cuff of my pants over the shoe tops. The white rubber toe stuck out revealing only a hint of green.

My father, sister and I were the first to arrive at Ward Funeral home. We walked through the glass doors into the foyer, with pale grey walls, a floral navy and green carpet, and a long marble table with boxes of tissue. I hung my coat on a wooden rack and settled into a room with mahogany wood tables and chairs, baby blue couches, a fireplace and powder pink walls. I spread old photos of my mother and family over the glass table top to create a collage on a large, white sticky sheet with a plastic cover. I scanned images of my mother with large reddish curly hair, some with it brown, cut sleek and short, and only a couple with her wearing a bandanna. I arranged the photos onto the adhesive sheet while waiting to see my mother, restored in her coffin.

My father looked at my mother first. He gasped; then looked away. The skin of my mother's face fell down the sides of her jaw. Her eyelids were wrinkled like pressed fabric. She had died with her mouth open and whatever they placed under her lips to keep them closed gave her an expression we had never seen her make. My father clasped his fingers behind his head and paced back and forth in front of her coffin. He wiped a tear away from his tired eye. My aunt removed the light pink satin scarf she was wearing and placed it around my mother's neck to conceal the falling skin. My father slightly pulled her short, brown-haired wig away from her forehead. The cancer had aged my mother, raping her of her stunning beauty, leaving her looking like a stranger to us.

Rows of Casablanca lilies, dendrobium orchids, red and white carnations, yellow daisies and delicate baby's breath surrounded my mother's coffin. Large bouquets, wreathes and crosses of flowers were draped in sashes that read, “In Loving Memory” and “Forever Remembered.” The odor of the flowers bombarded my senses. A row of large cushioned chairs upholstered in a shiny pink fabric were for immediate family: my father, sister, grandmother, and three aunts. Boxes of tissue rested on arm rests between the chairs. A line of people dressed in black began to form along the right side of the room.

I sat in my assigned chair for a couple hours. The tears of family and friends wet my face when they kissed me to offer their condolences. I kissed the faces of strangers too. “Thank you for coming” I repeated. I wiped the wet off my face. I smiled a gracious smile.

On the day of the burial, we gathered around my mother's coffin for the last time. The funeral director removed the kneeling stool. I stood looking over my mother. My heart went wild inside my chest. I thought my lungs were going to fail me. My knees buckled under me. I fell hard onto the floor. I gripped my mother's tiny, fragile wrist. I held it tight, and I cried myself into a panic attack on the floor. A set of hands lifted me up from under my arms and took me outside. I sat on a bench outside of the room with my dead mother inside of a box, and stared down at the green of my shoe.

"It’s raining here like mad, big chunks and drops of rain. Sometimes it hits the windows like it’s flying sideways. Sometimes the walls creak and I imagine them caving in and taking my life. Someone’s gonna die out there, someone’s gonna smash up their car and face and chest cavity. Then they’re gonna die and some others are gonna most likely die inside, too. It’s a real tragedy, all the crashes and smashes that are happening this minute, the dying and all. The rain takes lives and good moods too. It’s taken away the little joy in my heart right now and all I can think about is sadness. Does that happen to you? It happens to me when it rains or when I watch certain films or when I have to iron. Especially when I iron - there is something depressing and therapeutic about the whole thing, running a hot slab of metal over fabrics, destroying the wrinkles, flattening out its land and turning the things around, trying not to forget the sleeves and collars, making sure you flatten out your thoughts and that you put enough pressure on the voices to burn them away without actually putting a hole through the garment, or your heart. It’s a tricky task; it means the same thing the rain does. I hope you’re having a nice day."

In response, her lover wrote back telling her she should cheer up, and appreciate the rain. Feeling worse than before, she wrote back once more:

"I didn’t mean to say I don’t like the rain - surely I understand its purpose, and enjoy a good blast of it every now and then - the real subject of my discourse was about its violent temper and consequences. We drive by accidents on the highway and it’s all glorious because the metals smashed up and the lights from the fire coming out of the vehicles are something amazing, but there’s really a dead baby inside and its mother is still breathing though she’s paralyzed and wont realize until later that she cant move. She’s lost both her lives at one and the same time, all at the mercy of a storm. When the rain hits as hard as it did, that’s all I see. It’s all shit."

She shredded office documents for the rest of the day, indulging in her sadness, while the rain fell hard and sideways against the windows.

The End.

Published by Everything Magazine

My father grew up in Calabria, Italy. That’s the toe of the boot. He came to Canada when he was 21, and before he did, he lived on a farm with his parents and seven siblings. Five boys and three girls. Their income was generated by the work they did on the farm. Among other farming tasks, they made salami that had to last them the whole year. Pigs were farmed and kept separate from the other animals. Two pigs were saved for the salami and the rest were sold for money. The chosen two for the salami had to be two years of age.

“The last six months before we killed the pigs, Nonna would feed them ciciari é ghiande so the meat would be really tasty,” my father tells me as he slouches on a red armchair with his feet on its ottoman. Ciciari é ghiande are chic peas and acorns.

“Nonna wouldn’t want anyone to look at it; she was worried it was a jinx, especially right before killing the pig. I would hear my mother saying, ‘Unné grasso abbastanza!’ so she would over feed them.” All the neighbors were in competition about how fat their pigs were. My sweet Nonna, so competitive and superstitious.

My father takes me through the morning of the pig slaughter, which his family calls the “Festa Du Purco.” Festa – meaning party – seems to be an ironic word for the event but when you’re about to prepare food to last until the next year, I guess it is some kind of celebration.

“On the morning of the day to kill the pigs, we get up really early around 12:30, 1 o’clock in the morning to fill the quadara. It takes six to seven hours with an open fire for it to reach a full boil.” Quadara is the term for pot in pure Calabrese dialect. “Around day break,” he continues, “we get help from the neighbors to gather the pig, tie ‘em up, lay it down on some hay, and we would kill it with a BIG knife.” They cut the throats, because they didn’t want the pig to die right away. My eyebrows lift in slight disgust at the torturous thought, but he explained that in order for the meat to be nice you needed to drain all the blood. It was a slow death for two reasons: first you want all the blood out of the meat, and second, you would use the blood for other things. NONE of the pig went to waste. “We used everything”. His eyes open wide and serious to emphasize the point.

“A lady with a big stick stood next to the pig and stirred all the blood that was draining into a pot so that it didn’t quaglia” Confusion falls upon my face over the word. My sister tells me that quaglia means coagulate. “We would hold the pig so it didn’t move. Oh man, it used to be brutal to hear them cry.” I interrupt and ask if the children were scared to watch the whole thing happen. I try to imagine my father as a child holding a fat pig that is slowly bleeding to death.

“I grew up with them, I had to feed them and clean them, I wasn’t scared, but when they were killed I didn’t wanna hear them crying so me and the other kids would go hide and cover our ears. But it was all natural for me. I used to love to skin them, all the hair would come off and the skin would be so clean.” I feel the satisfaction of peeling a thick layer of nail polish off my fingernail.

“And the anticipation of when all the food was ready to eat…” he slightly tilts his head back with joy. My mind’s eye sees my father as a sweet boy peeping over the table top salivating for a fresh plate of pasta with chunks of meat inside.

“We had to make sure the pig was dead, otherwise, when you put hot water to take the skin and hair off, a couple times I remember, the pigs started running like crazy and it took a few hours to gather them.” He laughs from his round belly at the thought, his shoulders rise and fall. “You put the feet down, the feet had to be in the hot water the longest to get the nails and hard parts off, in the maidda.” The maidda, which my father pronounces my-e-dra, is the largest pot that the pig sits in – easily confused with the quadara.

“You pour the hot water from the quadara and skin the ears and top, and with some help you flip it upside down and the under part is exposed. Then you take the nails of the feet off and make sure you take off all the hair. When the pig is all nice and clean, you put a hole on the ankle, catch the nerve and put a gammieddo (like a swirly hook) in it and hang the pig upside down in the shed. Then very carefully a lady with a big sporta (bushel) and a misale (tablecloth) inside it catches all the guts. The organs were separated from the intestines. When all that was out, the ladies would take the sporta to the river, and untangle all the intestines and wash them in the rushing water. While that was happening, the men would cut the head off and split the pig exactly in half, bring them inside on a table, get the head, open the mouth, put an orange in and put it on the window sill.

“I was used to it so I wasn’t scared,” my father tells me. The end of that day consisted of cooking up some liver and having a feast.

“The next day, the meat is cooled off and the pig was ready to be spazzunato (butchered). The rear legs would be left whole to make prosciutto; out of the four, two were for prosciutto and two for sopressata. You had to take off all the lard first, make them in strips three inches wide, and that would be hung for a couple days. We’d use that for grasso. (It’s like Crisco in case they didn’t have enough olive oil because sometimes the crop wasn’t that rich). The rest of the meat would all be cleaned, then take some fat off that wasn’t used for meat and spots of blood were removed.” I could smell the dead meat, cold and damp, the same way my basement smells every year when we make sausages. Except there is no dead pig in my basement, not a whole one at least.

“Everything was done by hand with knives, we didn’t have machines in those days,” he narrows his black and white brows. “Meat with blood was for liver sausage. Once all the meat was separated we use the cleaned maidda to mix paprika, salt, peppercorns, and chili peppers to taste. Same for sausage but instead of black pepper you’d put finnocchio (fennel seeds). Then we would use the small casings for the sausage and the big ones for the sopressata. To fill it you’d use the imbuti (funnel)…” my father pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes when he can’t think of the word. “Like a… like a funnel, and then you push with the big thumb. Then you hang them in the kitchen from the ceiling. To cure them in the morning we’d make a big fire to make some smoke, and then do that again in the evening. After that the capicolli and prosciutto was salted. They would stay three to four days in the salt and then washed with cold water and vinegar, and almost all covered with paprika. That and hot pepper was used so the mosche (bugs) would stay away. Then they were hung again. After two to three days you boiled all the lard to make grasso. That in itself was a huge thing to do because at the same time we’d boil all the bones and when it was all cooked there would be another big, BIG feast. The big Flintstone bones were amazing.” He smiles a wide smile. I laugh that my father even knows about the Flintstones.

“With the meat from the head we would make the gelatina, (head cheese, actually called suzu in calabrese). With the blood we’d make, what is it called…. sanguinaccio - boiled blood with chocolate, noce (walnuts), and cinnamon. Boiled and then filled into the vescica (bladder) and hung to dry. Then you cut it and eat it, and it was fuck’n delicious!” I mimic vomiting by filling my cheeks with air.

There is such pride in this Festa du Purco. I ask him what the best part is. He thinks back for a second, and I know he misses his father.

“When the meat was dry and ready, THAT was a moment of pride! Because some people’s didn’t come out good and they had to throw theirs away and they were screwed for the whole year.”

“Did that ever happen to your family?” I ask with concern – the thought of all that work going to waste is a nightmare.

“Oh no, but it did to Zia Carmella” his eyes are large and his voice low.

“And in those days you had to bring a filletto (piece of meat) to the doctor, or to the priest, and Zio Armando hated it. He wanted to kill my mother and father, always complaining, ‘Unné giusto! Pecchie!?‘ But some time after we stopped doing that; we got smart. We realized that we had to pay them anyways so why the hell do we have to give away our best meat?”

“Do you like telling me all this?” I ask my father with a slight grin. I can tell how much he likes to tell me about his life on the farm, about how hard he worked, the life they made for themselves.

“Yeah” and he nods his head as if to say “Of course, you’d be proud too if you did what I had to do.” He’s old now, my father. Sixty-one. He wants to sell his business and rest soon. To think of all he’s done, all those years ago, just a young boy tending the land. A life where a suffering pig is a thing to celebrate. Festa du Purco. To me, that means pride.

Winner of the 2008 Harold Sonny Ladoo Book Prize for Creative Writing.

Underneath the dinner table, I ran my toes down my cousin's shin. His sister, my brother, and our parents spoke over each other about gas prices and final exams and how long to boil asparagus. They passed around bowls of greens, filled glasses with water or wine, and struck utensils against the China. I brought a forkful of lettuce to my mouth, chewed it up and swallowed it down. All the while, I was trying to seduce my cousin.

Elliott had been in London working for a marketing company the past six years. Before he left, I had just started high school. I'd grown a chest since then, a rather nice one, I'd say, and my hips had curved out roundly. The blonde in my hair had darkened and had grown almost long enough to reach my elbows. I had longer legs, straighter teeth, and a lot more confidence.

When it came time to deciding where to sit, my uncle Bill offered my father the head of the table but my father refused it, saying the head of the house sits at the head of their table. He ended up sitting to Bill's right. My aunt Carol sat at the other head of the table because it's closest to the stove and she would keep getting up. My mother said she wanted to be close to the kitchen to help so she sat to Carol's right. My cousin Jenny complained that her father's chewing makes her nervous so she sat next to her mother. I sat between my father and Jenny, and Elliott sat between my brother Miles and my mother, leaving he and I across from each other.

Elliott, at first, moved his foot away from mine, maybe thinking I'd brushed his leg accidentally when crossing my legs or shifting positions in my seat. I might have done it all accidentally, I had no intention of doing what I was doing, but once I got started, I kept at it, a little brush every now and then, letting the side of my foot rest against the side of his, seeing what he would make of it.

"Eli, more coffee?" his mother asked. She stood over him, her hands on his shoulders, squeezing them it seemed. "How about some pie? Aunt Sarah brought you a strawberry rhubarb pie. Or, there's pastries if you want."

"Jesus Christ, Carol," his father said, "leave our son alone, we've been eating for hours let him rest. For the love of God he's not even finished his meal yet." I watched Elliott. He grinned at his father. His mother said she was just giving him his options. She said that if she can't spoil her own son who can she spoil? She was smothering him, with love and with all the attention in the world.

"That's right Aunt Carol," I said, "give him what he wants. He can have what he wants." His sister rolled her eyes and chomped on a mouthful of meat. I brushed up against his leg again, and this time he slouched into his chair.

I asked my brother to pass the red wine. I poured myself a glass. Elliott held out his glass to me and said please. I poured it slowly, Elliott asking for a little more, a little more. When Jenny asked for some her mother said, "Jennifer don't be silly. That's the last thing you should have."

"Like I've never had wine before, mother, you're so friggin tight," Jenny said.

"You can have some when you grow up, little one," Elliott said. He looked at me. Jenny called him a dickwad and her mother warned to her to watch her language or else.

I watched Elliott push the last of the pork on his plate into his mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, up and down, and when he pressed his teeth down together his jaw flexed below the ear. When the light caught his eyes they looked the color of coffee beans. His hair was growing out of a buzz cut, shaggy but the same length the whole way round his head. Stubble poked out from his face, dark and spotted. He'd grown into a real man, strong and tall and grown. I couldn't keep my feet away from him.

Sometimes I think we love our family because we have to, or because love is what people who are family are supposed to feel for each other. Truth is though, I never felt that kind of love for Elliott. We'd grown up together but I was just a kid with a crush on him back then. He'd let me sit on his lap and jump on his back and when I wanted him to carry me around the backyard like he was my horse, he would. When I'd wrap my legs tight around him and told him to run faster, he did it because I was his little cousin. I doubt he ever thought that I was trying to feel pressure against my crotch, because you know, you're not supposed to want to fuck your cousin. And even though I was only a kid, and at the time it wasn't about fucking, I knew that I wanted to feel Elliott in a way I wasn't supposed to. Then all these years later, I was grown and he looked older and more beautiful to me than I remembered, and I imagined in my mind that same sensation, and the wanting to feel him. Next thing I knew, I tried brushing up against his leg again but this time he was slouching deeper into his seat and I felt his foot next to mine.

When I felt it, God only knows what look came over my face. I wrapped my fingers around my glass of water and brought it to my lips, taking three large gulps. I wiped my mouth with my napkin and then folded it in half, then in half again, and in half once more until it was a small, hard square. I kept staring at my napkin, opening it up and then refolding it. Unfolded it, refolded it.

Elliott's cell phone rang. He looked down at it, sat up in his chair, and I couldn't feel his foot anymore. He said it was Stacey and excused himself from the table. I watched him as he left the room, noting the color of his socks.

"Poor girl," my aunt said. "She must be having the worst time over there without Eli."

"The day she isn't glad to be rid of his skeezy ass, please," his sister Jenny said. "He's such a fucking player, probably's got the herp on his fork."

"Jennifer, keep it up with that mouth and see what's going to happen to you," her mother said. Jenny's still in that my-brother-is-a-loser-my-parents-are-so-embarrassing stage of her life. I imagine she spends all her time locked in her room filling diaries and listening to music.

I could only make out mumbles from Elliott's mouth in the next room. His mother said that maybe this one's the one, that Eli has matured a great deal since he's been away and maybe he's ready to settle down. Jenny responded with her eye-rolling thing.

Elliott sat back down in his chair. Our mothers had begun clearing the table. The sun outside was setting, and through the blinds rows of pink fell on the tablecloth. Elliott pushed his seat closer to the table and sunk low in it. He clasped his hands behind his head and I felt his toes on mine. I began to fold and unfold my napkin again.

"Everything okay with Stacey?" my aunt asked taking some dishes into the kitchen.

"Yeah she's alright, she says hello. Ma, mind putting on a coffee? I could use a coffee for sure right now," Elliott said. I mentioned that I'd love a cup and my Uncle Bill shouted for her to put on the big pot.

Elliott's foot felt good on mine, his big toe under the arch of my foot. When his mother returned from the kitchen, she stood over Elliott and asked him to stop slouching. I picked up my unfolded napkin and refolded it. Looking up at her I said that those pastries sounded delicious.

"Are there any with strawberry?" I asked. "You know those little cups with the big strawberry on top?" She went back into the kitchen and Elliott slouched slightly.

"God those are so nasty, that red shit on top is disgusting," Jenny said. Her mother returned and put the tray of pastries on the table.

"Who the hells asking you to eat it? Shit you're a brat." Elliott said. He grabbed a strawberry pastry from the tray and placed it in front of me. Jenny told Elliott to keep his fucking feet on his side of the table and looked at me. I clenched my napkin and Elliott sat back in his chair. I felt his foot sweep away from mine.

Elliott kept his feet on his side of the table. We'd eaten all the pastries, Miles had left to hang with his friends and Jenny disappeared upstairs. I'd heard enough about how smart Stacey is and how she's real motivated and all that shit. I excused myself and went to the washroom.

I sat on the toilet seat looking at the crotch of my underwear. It was wet and shiny. I wiped it with some toilet paper. Standing over the bathroom sink, I leaned on my hands and looked at my face in the mirror. I ran my tongue across my teeth making sure nothing was stuck between them. My nipples were hard and showing through my blouse like round buttons. I washed my hands, dried them off, and took a deep breath. Tucking my hair behind my ear, I watched myself in the mirror. I wondered what it would feel like to have Elliott do to me what he does to Stacey.

I closed the lid of the toilet and sat on it, thinking. Elliott's penis was the first I'd ever seen. He was changing in the washroom out of his swim trunks one summer; I must have been seven at the time. We'd been playing in the sprinkler. Jenny and Miles and I were still playing outside so I suppose that's why he didn't close the door all the way. I walked by the washroom to get us Popsicles and saw him changing. He was completely naked. I just stood, watching him. It hung between his legs and there was all this hair around it, like a black Brillo pad. I'd never seen anything like that, I couldn't look away. I went to my room and sat on my bed with my legs crossed, squeezing all my muscles tight. The pressure was the kind I wanted when he used to carry me on his back, but it was stronger and more intense. When I heard Elliott leaving the bathroom I went to grab the Popsicles from the freezer and followed him back outside.