Fiction: “Jujugoo” by Alison McCabe
I do, I look up to my friends. I marvel at their talents. Lucy has her cherry stem. Bart has his Rubik’s cube. During Super Bowl, in Melanie’s basement, Terrance outshines the halftime show with his flawless recitation of all fifty states. In alphabetical order. Five beers in.
Jackson has his karaoke. Charlie, her invisible ink. When it’s a full moon, Samantha can read auras and, even though we don’t believe her, she still carries this around, like a talisman, near and dear.
Mark can stand on his head. Kelly runs marathons in giant, gray cities and on switchbacks up Mount Lemmon. Jesus has his name.
I can’t wiggle my ears. I can’t curl my tongue. I type with my two pointer fingers because, six years ago, in sixth grade, I got a C in computer class, and only by sneaking peeks under my cardboard box when Dr. Erlick’s back was turned. Twice, I quit a summer job after the first day. Once, I presented my PowerPoint in bio lab with pen ink smeared on my face.
At least I have them, my friends. And, as Lucy says, we’ll have each other forever after we do what we do tonight. After we decide what it is we should do. Once in, there will be no getting out.