Wire Mesh Mothers

23

The girl held her by her arm outside in the dark cold and called across the street, “Here teacher, teacher, teacher!”

Mistie stared at the knife in the girl’s hand. It was sharp like the one Daddy used to cut open apples and things. She wished the girl would let go. She didn’t like people touching her. It was scary, people’s hands and the way they got sweaty and sticky; the things the hands held sometimes.

She shut her eyes tightly and imagined television with Princess Silverlace in her pink gown and the sparkling gifts being laid at her feet. The princess smiled at the people who stood at her throne. She smiled at Mistie. Mistie smiled back. The princess held out her hand, not to take Mistie’s but to welcome her to come up and try out the throne. Mistie walked up the carpeted steps and sat down. The chair was huge and gold, and the cushion on which she sat was soft and fuzzy, like what God’s lap would be if God had a lap.

“Mistie, get in the car.”

Mistie opened her eyes. The teacher was back again, standing beside her. It had started to drizzle, and the teacher’s face was streaked with wet. Mistie could no longer smell the teacher’s sweet hand lotion.

“Mistie,” repeated the girl with the knife. “Get in the car.”

Mistie looked at her feet, the teacher, the sky. There were no stars tonight.

“There’s another Twix in the car,” said the teacher.

Mistie went to the car and climbed in.