Two teenage girls, perhaps 14 or 15 years old, sit together in the McDonalds in the local Wal-mart. One faces Peanut, and proceeds to coo and giggle over her. The other sits, silent.
Later, high school girl voices carry over the aisles in the baby department, "oh, you have to find out if it's a boy or a girl, cause I, like, wanna know. I just have to know. If it's, like, a girl it'll be sooo cute and, like, it'll be so fun to dress her up. Oh oh oh, and you'll have to buy that for her."
And on it goes.
I round the corner, and spot the girls from the McDonalds. The one with the eager voice, all heavy eyeliner and too-tight tank top, her whole being suffused with the excitement of being a part of this drama while simultaneously grateful that it isn't her, ohmygawd. The other, feet jammed in unlaced sneakers, ratty hoodie pushed back with hands stuff in the pockets, her lank hair hiding her face. Her stomach is still flat, her body childish. She responds, the cocky and careless answers she tosses off betrayed by her shuffle, the way she curls over into herself as she walks.
The weight of the world on her shoulders.