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by Jamy Bond
I watched the party through a crack in the door of the foyer closet, my favorite hiding spot, where the scratchy rims of winter coats brushed against my head and broken umbrellas pressed into my back. I could see Mom in a hounds-tooth mini skirt and white go-go boots; Dad in plaid shorts and loafers. Mom pulled a gold pineapple keychain from the fishbowl, twirled it around her finger until Jason’s dad, Mr. Nichols, sauntered up and nuzzled her neck like a dog. She gulped the last of her Manhattan and the two of them disappeared through the back door, swallowed whole by darkness. Last year at the July 4th pool party, Jason pinned me against the tiles beneath the diving board and slid his fingers into my bathing suit. No one could see what was happening beneath the surface of that eel-black water, but high above us, light shattered the night sky and stars streamed down like confetti.
Jamy Bond’s stories and essays have appeared in a variety of publications, including Best Microfiction 2023, Wigleaf, The Sun Magazine, and The Rumpus. Find her on X @bond_jamy or Meta: jamy.bond.
