I receive a gift from a 1978 it girl

max pearson

I'm kneeling on the rocky shoreline of Lake Michigan,
picking the flattest stones I can find and trying to skip them.
When I can't do it, I blame the sun in my eyes. It shines over the water,
cutting a long line of white through the churning black waves.

A few meters away is a girl from 1978, with long, blonde hair
blown back by the wind. She's sitting on a rock, cleaning a perch
with her bare hands, stripping away layers of skin and sinew
and biting at the flesh inside with perfect pearl teeth.

When she sees me, she swallows, sets the fish down
and pulls a bottle of hairspray from the deep pocket
of her brown leather jacket. That's the shit
that killed the ozone, she says, and passes it to me.

She picks a few ribs out of the mangled mass of meat.
I could create an Eve out of these. I could create a dozen
Eves out of these. The tips of her fingers are so white
they blend in with the bones. If only there was still an Eden to stick them in.

Silence. I hold the hairspray to my head and give it a spritz.
Feel that? she says, the air just got a little warmer.
She wipes her hands on her bell bottom jeans before she rises,
towering over me as she fluffs up my hair. Looks killer, though.

Max Pearson is a senior at Interlochen Arts Academy. Her work has been recognized by YoungArts and the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Her work has appeared in WIREWORM, The Interlochen Review, and The Red Wheelbarrow, and is forthcoming in the YoungArts anthology. She will be attending the University of Minnesota Twin Cities in the fall, with an intended double major in English and Ojibwe Language.