My Tiki Girl Read Online Free Page B

Dahlia.
    “Apocalypse,” we all say in unison, singsongy, grinning, as the flash goes off in our eyes. We hear the camera’s motor working and the picture is spit out. We gather around Dahlia to watch it develop. It’s all cloudy at first, then we can make out forms. The forms turn into people and suddenly, there we are, looking up at ourselves as Dahlia holds us, waves us around a little to help bring us into focus.
    There’s Jonah, magic ring in one hand, a gray walkie-talkie in the other. He looks small for a ten-year-old, skinny, with dark brown hair and eyes, just a sprinkling of freckles. Maybe it’s the oversize robe that makes him look so tiny. It’s dark blue terry cloth with a hood, and Leah has sewn gold lamé stars to it. His gold belt is a thick, tasseled rope that used to hold a curtain open. You can just see the toes of his black Converses peeking out from under the hem of his robe.
    And there’s Leah, holding the second walkie-talkie in her hand, Birdwoman hanging out of her low-slung pocketbook. She’s wearing the old peacoat; her hair is bleached blond and straight like Dahlia’s. She’s got bangs that nearly cover her eyebrows. She cuts her own hair, and Dahlia’s and Jonah’s too. Leah looks more like a teenager than a woman about to be forty. I know she’s thirty-nine because she tells us she’s going to have a big fortieth birthday party in June. She’s going to rent a riverboat and we’ll all go riding up and down the Connecticut River, drinking champagne and launching firecrackers off the side.
    I’m standing between them in the photo, my hands dug deep into the pockets of my jeans, touching change, a house key, and the new knife. My own hair is dull brown and straight, not as long as Dahlia’s, just long enough to tuck behind my ears. I’m skinny—too skinny, everyone says. Before the accident, it was a good thing— God, you’re so thin, Maggie, you can wear anything! Must be nice, Maggie! Now that I’m a cripple, suddenly it creeps people out. Plus maybe I lost some weight after the accident. It’s true—in the picture, I’m hardly there. I look as lost in my white fisherman’s sweater and denim jacket as Jonah does in his robe. Behind us are the shadows of skaters going in circles. I think I look a little like one of those shadows when I see myself next to Leah and Jonah. If Dahlia was in the picture, you probably wouldn’t see me at all.
    We play the photo game next, where we go around the mall putting Birdwoman different places and taking her picture. Dahlia takes pictures of Birdwoman sitting on the shoulder of a mannequin, riding alone on the step of an escalator, resting in a display of fine china, and—my favorite—Birdwoman sitting on the second-story railing, getting ready to jump. Leah lets go of her, and Dahlia takes another one of Birdwoman in flight while Jonah gets ready to catch her. Birdwoman lands safely in Jonah’s hands, but the picture just shows a dark blur. The camera can’t freeze motion.
    We make fun of the skaters, drop popcorn on them from up above until a security guard chases us away. While we’re up there looking down, I’m kind of almost wishing I was there on the ice again, showing off my moves. I want to show Dahlia how close skating is to flying. I want to lean into her on the turns, to laugh until our teeth hurt as we hurtle through space on metal blades.
    In the car on the way back, we sing “We Will Rock You.” It’s by Queen, who Dahlia says is a totally underrated band. Jonah whispers to his ring. Dahlia rests against me, her head on my shoulder, the blanket covering us both. She puts her hand on my knee, then slides it down, reaching for my scar, only my jeans are in the way.
    My scar is like a magnet to Dahlia. She wants to see it all the time, and she always looks sort of relieved each time I pull up the leg of my pants, like maybe she was worried it had gone away.
    The backseat smells like gasoline and we’re cold, but