Bullet Train

The train ride was long. And the four of us sat just like mom had told us, with our legs parallel and touching, squeezing our thighs tight enough to hold a nickel under knee-length skirts. There were bad men on some of these cars, mama always said. There were men who wanted to take advantage of us and we had to keep our distance. More than anyone, it was those shorter girls who got into trouble: the thirteen year-olds who dressed like loose women and wore metal belts, hanging low-cut shirts—the kind of girls who like to show their bare legs, who sit in the back of church.

The youngest, Lorietta, picked at the ribbons in her hair. Reaching over to her seat, I slapped her knee fast and hard. Grandma was sick, I said, and mom wanted us to show her what good, young women we’ve grown into.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: