Lifetime Shorts.

I
They sat in health class laughing nervously when the topic of human sexuality arose. No one even stopped to consider the power for destruction contained between Tab and Slot. These were just diagrams and little paper models that teenagers could imitate better with their own hands. Paper leaves cuts when attempting orgasm. Maybe the girl curled up in the front row could explain it, stretched out across her binder, head down and eyes shut until the teacher poked her awake for an answer she never got wrong. The best birth control is still creativity, if you can justify it.


II

But that's still nothing like coming home to do laundry and picking up your daughter's clothing to realize there's still blood on the inside of all the used bras and not daring to ask why. Some things a parent is better off not knowing, especially if it's not life threatening. Breasts are just close to the heart; not like she'd bleed out from there anyway. Besides... The last time you tried to talk to her about anything was when she was eight and still rooming with her sister upstairs, and you hit her. And she hit back, with a whispered promise to kill you if you dared touch her again. Even now, when she's almost graduated from high school, you still ask permission to give hugs. She rolls her eyes and says nothing, and when you lean in to touch her, you're both stiff as cardboard because you wonder if noncommittal silence is the same as saying no.

III
I suppose I'd be jealous too, if I were you, but that's only because you're on the football team and you can't imagine being overshadowed yet again. Bad enough that in three years your high school will celebrate it's thirtieth anniversary of losing the homecoming game. Maybe worse that the other team will make a delicious cake to congratulate you. Definitely worse that in the middle of gym class you landed on the wrong side of the handball game and an upstart freshman gave you a black eye when she went after the ball in the bleachers. Definitely worse that your coach saw the whole thing and told your team and brought your captaincy up for question. The worst now that she's got posters with her name in the hallway reading, "Dear Football Team: At least we can beat Peru. Love, the swim team." I bet that burns.


IV
You'd probably remember it better if there hadn't been three of you. Four, if you remember she existed, and that little black notebook she pulled out whenever something went wrong. You thought about stealing it and reading all the entries aloud over campfire to the other girl scouts, but she always kept the damn thing with her, and it wasn't worth the trouble to get it. Just taunt another thirteen year old about her obsession with one of the college-age camp counselors; a lifeguard named Star. "You must love her," you said once. She got a strange look in her eyes, then, and smiled, that smile that scared the shit out of you and your two friends if any of you were alone. "You like girls. You're sick." She laughed, but that look still didn't leave her eyes. That night she was driven to the hospital, unconscious concussion. You weren't there, but I saw her, rocking on the edge of the bunk bed, murmuring that this would hurt. Two eight year old scout-lings caught her; otherwise there'd have been no use for an ambulance.


V
Standing in front of class every day is hard enough; try it for three hours. That's why you put breaks into the schedule. One break and cookies at the one and half hour mark. The cookies are as contagious as the creative spark running through the front quarter of the classroom. It started out at one desk and spread until there were too many arts projects going on to properly call it a mythology class. She started it with knitting, then moved to cross stitch. You sent her an email, hoping she would get the hint. Next Monday, she thanked you for the link to mythological patterns. Maybe I should have warned you; she doesn't do subtle.