"I dare you," he said. "Make a noise. I dare you."
-
In this room, the smell of paint overwhelms the senses to the point of annoyance. In this room, walls are pale pink, clearly gender specific. In this room, peace and quiet reign and wait for a little baby girl to fill this empty crib with new life and joy.
-
It was three thirty in the afternoon on a Sunday. Marie sat in the middle of the newest addition to their house-hands wrapped around her fleshy basket ball of a stomach.

The beauty of a new child. The pure innocence. Joy spread over Marie's face in slow rays of bliss, thinking
(i hope she's beautiful,i hope she gets good grades and is successful,people will love her,but most of all,i will love her because she is my daughter,she will be mine,my creation,a little me,she will sing and she might even be interested in the same things i am,we could cook together and she could help me with the garden when spring rolls around and oh god i hope she's beautiful

please god make her beautiful)
about her new daughter.
-
(I want to be kidding. I hope I am kidding.

I'm not.

I tell you things, I tell you everything. You might chuckle, your body might heave back and forth a little like those stupid weeble whatevers you see advertised on TV, but you think I'm joking. I'm pulling your leg. I'm joshing you.

Well, I'm not.

Am I ashamed?

A little. But I would never admit that. I would never ever tell anyone that. I'm telling the truth in between my teeth, the little white rodents that line my gums. I laugh, too. I laugh with you. I might even laugh a little when you walk away.

But I am never kidding.
Ever.)
-
Jane had so much potential, her mother would say.

She could be the eloquent actress on stage, the scientist with the revolutionary idea, the powerful boss of huge a company-her workers in between the ground and her stiletto heel, the lovely stay at home mom, the successful lawyer.

Unbeknownst to her family and her peers, her mother would later confess, she had the most potential
-
(I want to blame someone. I want to point the finger. I don't want me to be my fault.

I want to be able to blame the kids at school. I want to blame my teachers who don't do a thing. My teachers that sit there and watch, thinking about their kids, last night's game of football, the science teacher down the hall that's been on their mind lately, thinking about how they're going to keep that from their wife or husband, thinking, "The kids will stop eventually. Jane will be fine. Jane will be fine." I want to blame the weather, my cat, the top step in my house-that haunting top step.

But most of all, I want to blame my parents.

I want to look Marie in the eyes and say that it's her fault.
I want to look William in the eyes and say that it's his fault.

God.

Just let me go.)
-
to have no potential at all.