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Slack
Slack
Do you remember when you wrapped a jump rope
around your waist? You handed me the
slack, hands extended like a tightrope walker
atop the wooden frame of the top
bunk. We were surrounded by posters
of guys you called “cute,” mostly
One Direction. I liked Harry best,
but you liked Harry best,
which meant I actually
liked Louis best.
I sat on the top bunk and held the slack of the
sparkly jump rope like an anchor while you
walked along the railing
so I could catch you if you fell.
I knew you wouldn’t fall, pulling
me down with you. You walked with
grace, a ten-year-old supermodel in
Claire’s lip gloss.
Do you remember leaving my house
and yelling to my
sister that you stole her
favorite teddy bear? I
hid it in my room for you, playing along
with your prank, listening to her
cry as your cruelty
turned into mine.
I left plenty of slack between myself and
and the waistband of your denim skirt
where you tucked the
jump rope. You always had cooler
clothes than me, even
in the flash games you
played while I sat next to you and
watched. The only game I got to play was
Minecraft—I gathered wood and
mined the stone blocks for you to build the
house that you so graciously
allowed me to live in with
you. Do you remember
telling me to hold the jump rope
“really really really tight?”
I knew it wouldn’t catch you, the
flimsy plastic rope. You didn’t tie a
knot. Do you remember that you didn’t
listen when I told you to tie a knot?
Then you fell.
I dropped the jump rope
and lunged, snatching at your
flailing body. I heard a pop and a
scream as the seam of your
black tank top ripped and slipped
from my hand.
You were fine.
I slowed your fall.
Do you remember shouting at me
for dropping the jump rope?
I wish you had cut me a little slack.
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I am an English-American highschool student living in Singapore.