Читать книгу Tiny - Mairead Case - Страница 29

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T I N Y

Sometimes, Tiny and Izzy talk about how hard it is to not be guys. Guys have it easy. Easier. Sometimes, they dress like guys in slim jeans and flat-front shirts, which is also like wishing puberty never happened. It’s like wishing they were still middle schoolers. They slink all over the neighborhood, hips-first and speaking one register lower. They call each other bro. It isn’t funny. Tiny and Izzy look at their nails by making small fists instead of stretching out their hands. They talk about music and hunger, and they tell stories that are shaped long and straight. Stories that end clearly and permanently.

These kinds of stories are comforting because, like the weather, they are okay to talk about with pretty much anyone. They are binary operations that many people have seen or solved already. Even if they haven’t, their brains know the patterns. They can relate. The pictures are familiar, even watered-down, and any ambient anxiety is calmed by trust in a resolution. Even when it’s violent. Even when humans bloom and Tiny’s hands, which are alive, are her dead mother’s hands too. Even then, these hard, flat stories promise comfort, with plenty left over to tuck away for next time.

Honestly, Tiny just wants to walk down the street without worrying. She and Izzy try it on like a costume. Only ever thinking about yourself is exhausting. A boring coil.