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Show 143 Winter meant that spring was coming, and spring meant my annual humiliation. It meant that the sun would begin to work its irony on me, would begin to dry and heal my already burnt skin, and the doctors at the Center would order me to bare my arms and legs. Jesus how I dreaded those warm sunny days that brought the others at school together in dizzy romance. Naked before my classmates, I would watch with them as the purple turned to red, then salmon, then white. And while they eagerly groped for each others' bodies in the halls and cafeteria and schoolyard, I would go to the bathroom and pick compulsively at the dry scales that formed on my own flesh. To my face they were quiet, chickenshit because I was tough for a girl; but behind my back, I know, they called me the fishwoman. I did well in school. I have a tough mind too, lousy compensation for my bad skin. And I worked harder than I needed to, secretly believing for a long time that I might be able to learn my way out of my condition. My mind won me the highest marks in biology and chemistry, even made me a valedictorian; but it never got me a boyfriend. I'm in my room. It's midnight or later. I'm thinking about the fact that I will only see Dublonsky once more before his vacation. I'm feeling sad about it, sentimental, as though it might be our last meeting together. I'm thinking of the sea, and all that sun; I'm thinking about |
