The fat blonde bitch flung her backpack into her old MGB and sped away, hair flying furiously around the tight car as she searched for a cigarette and lighter.

She never knew where anything was.

In a few moments she was at the middle school to pick up her younger brother, who had to take special classes because he was too smart for the other hick kids in his class, and he was waiting on the sidewalk for the girl as she roared up.

Neither of them said anything as the kid opened the door and climbed in the front seat. As his sister drove away she flippantly flicked part of a butt on the boy’s backpack. He shot her a pair of eyes that seemed to say, this is all I have.

The girls’ thighs rubbed together when she changed gears. Her brother noticed this and thought that the impression flesh made on flesh seemed odd and slightly irritating, and he swore he would never get fat like her.

Amanda McQuade lives in Charlotte and studied American Literature in Ohio. She has appeared in PLANK, Ruminate, and MO: Writings from the River.