Swearwords and Peanut Butter Cups


Lucette sat on the edge of the bed with her hands in her lap, dressed for the day. There had been a time—and not so long ago it seemed—when she did this and her feet didn’t touch the floor. Now they did. This made her sad. Not sad in the way some cartoons did, or like the time the only real friend she’d had, Imogen, moved to New York with her parents. This sadness was new, different from those difficult-to-define barbs she thought of as memories of her father. Lucette missed the way her legs used to swing back and forth, and being unable to do so made her feel older than she wanted to be. She was sad because nobody had asked if she wanted to grow up in the first place.

If Mom is anything to go by, being an adult doesn’t look like fun. Getting old means you have to yell a lot and be angry over every little thing.

Every fucking thing.

Lucette glanced about the room, half expecting the walls of their apartment to split apart, revealing a network of ea
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