I can see myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors: harsh but true. Beautiful. I mean the lighting, not me in the mirror.
We arrange ourselves, cross-legged or loosely sprawled out on the syrupy wooden floor. Some natural gravitational attraction arrays the group into a roughly oval shape.
A boy a few people over from me has black ear piercings, just simple, opaque circles. He has eyes bluer than beach glass underwater and such a lilting voice, almost like a child’s. But pleasant to the ear. Nothing like the grating, screeching of some young offspring. I am not good with children.
There is a girl in a below-the-knee skirt, bright yellow and floral. Her eyes are also blue blue blue, and her hair is cornsilk yellow. Almost like her skirt. Golden bangs sweep her forehead, the rest of the hair above her shoulder. She rather looks and sounds like something out of Little House on the Prairie.
Hi, my name is Cherry. Yes, like the fruit.
One girl, frail and the epitome of bird-boned, is afraid of bridges. “What happens if you need to go over a bridge when you’re driving or something?” We ask. “I just cry.”
Another girl. She is perfect, doll-like, with an unexpectedly thin waist and elegantly curled brown tresses. She’s like a flower vase, only there are no flowers inside, no water, no glassy colored stones. It’s an empty vase. Empty vase, empty people.