Browndress
by Grace Curtis

I.

I’m a red bull, a thing in another time that might be called overactive. The world is eclectic, electric, electrified, and everything touched or seen or consumed emits something between static and full-blown electrocution—every change in weather, every porch-game, hose-sip! Drink up! Drink up little girl.

My father grips my chin and runs the edge of a comb across the top of my head to implant the memory of a part and I don’t mind that it hurts like hell. Now, here I am, prim, my unruly nest of a head flattened beneath a brown lid, feet in model pose. I will keep this troop 516 browndress forever and I will make new friends and keep the old, one silver, one gold, I actually believe I will obey the girl scout laws, and I am a kid who already loves smart turns-of-a-phrase, hearing music with…