Blondie

 

Blondie

Someone asked me if I were albino once; I'm
not: only blond and wax-pale, grown out of
a child whose shoulders got endlessly checked
for pink at the beach, Mom sliding down the

strap of my swimsuit to squint at the ribbon
of translucent flesh beneath it and compare:
Bill, Bill—has she picked up any... color? I'd
be taken back to the rental cottage if I had, so

it was best when Dad was reading something
interesting and grunted uh-uh. But when they
forgot, I loved sunburn's sear, the prickle of it
building on my forehead and cheeks, my skin

a drumhead, tightening. Dark-haired kids in
our neighborhood got crimson burns they'd
peel and show me. Scout camp girls smacked
each other's glowing backs, shrieking. Mom

must have written my counselor's boss about
shade and sun poisoning—one big, Noxzema-
scented freakout. I sat under trees. So I never
managed anything worth a slap. Not for me the

ribald little dog, swimsuit bottom in his teeth.
Not my pup, not my bikini. I was tired of it. I
wanted to be... fried. And if everybody else
jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge? I bet I'd fly.