Dealing Flesh Read Free

the loss of my happiness? Mhmm.
    Whip Cracker: You failed as a daughter, you awful, awful child you. To deserve a man like your father, you better be slim, have long flowing hair, and be financially well-off.
    Months pass. Wedding bells ring for Papa and Gisela. Oh, holy glory. Now that the two live together in her posh home located in a quiet cul-de-sac on the far south side of town, I get to spend a couple of weekends at his new domicile. It does not take me long to figure out that I am a Dorn in Gisela’s eye, but the feeling is mutual. After nearly two more encounters with the invader, Dad’s efforts to connect with me tapers off.
    Doubt Cloud: I am intrinsically flawed. I know it.
    Brokenhearted, I let Gisela whisk Papa away eternally.
    This afternoon, when the word “ Papa ” slips from my lips, Mother exclaims in an upset tone of voice, “He is no father. Why don’t you stop calling him that? A sperm donor, that is all he is and nothing more. A real father would never do what he did to you!” I admit, Papa’s behavior wounded me deeply, but I have a hard time incorporating Mother’s suggested terminology. So, I don’t.
    ~~~
    It’s a crisp, blue-sky summery morning. I fervently parade around the asphalt front yard of the red brick elementary school building, wearing a shy grin on my face, while holding a huge cone-shaped goody bag in front of my body. The conehead-shaped container that stands about a meter tall is a customary present that parents give their children on the day they enter first grade. Mine runs over with Schlickersachen . Much to my liking, I admit.
    I giddily explore my surroundings, but upon seeing a few fathers march in to accompany their daughters, the look on my face turns to rain. I so wish Papa was here. But he’s too busy making babies with Gisela. At least, that’s the impression I got from hearing Mother talk. Gulp.
    ~~~
    Fast forward to a year from now—Mother informs me that Dad has become the proud father of a son.
    Enviola: It’s the ultimate betrayal. Now I will, for sure, never matter again.

    Blushetta’s Curse
    The mere sight of Mrs. Huber, the fifty-something-year-old, long-nosed elementary school principal who wears her braided white hair rolled up in a bun, invokes sheer panic in me, especially when she looks at me with her stinging gray eyes. Each time she lectures, I hear only a wee bit of what she is trying to convey because I’m consumed with anticipating her every move. I mean, honestly, who’d be foolish enough to risk falling victim to any one of her notoriously unjust disciplinary actions, by needlessly shining the light on oneself?
    This morning, I sit erect like a statue, quiet like a mouse in my chair, following her agitated silhouette demeanor, wishing and hoping that I won’t be the one the cobra strikes out at today. I watch Heinrich, the fellow in front of me, form grimaces behind the principal’s back. Can’t help but burst out laughing; no, timidly giggling. Before I know it, Mrs. Huber, whose expression now reminds me of a slightly irate canine, stomps my way and stops right next to my desk.
    Scaredy Cat: Don’t breathe.
    “Stand up and hold your hands out,” she sternly demands. Reluctantly, I follow the order. At once, the ruler swishes down on my fingers. I flinch, feel the water build up around the rims of my lower eyelids, but I put forth every effort to keep actual tears from rolling.
    Tough Gal: Don’t give her that gratification.
    Scaredy Cat: I won’t. Sure hope though, there isn’t going to be much more of this.
    I feel the sharp pain of the ruler hailing down on my hands a second time. Mrs. Huber turns away from me and waddles back to her podium.
    It is around this time in first grade that I see more of Blushetta, the part inside me that turns redder than a rooster’s comb when all eyes are on me, like when the teacher calls on me, for instance.
    Blushetta: They know so much, and I know nothing. I am nothing. I hate that they