That night, I slipped out of the house with my hair in knots and toasted my DARE officer with a Coors Light
from the passenger window of a tan Honda. I remember you once told me that every teenage girl drives a Honda
and it’s true. That night I saw you with your hood up and thought I’d have to end up kissing him tonight or
I would never get over the brown eyed boy in the guest bedroom. And you let me challenge you to a push-up competition and won
with your skinny bird arms, and colored string bracelets around your wrists. That night I made you
hold my heavy head on your chest while you told me about cars and bikes and PBR and you let me tell you my
Dick Cheney conspiracy theories and views on aliens. I remember hoping he’d kiss me but not like the boy with the holes in his cartilage
and never speak to me again but instead we slept in a black leather cocoon and all you held was my hands and I worried all night
that you would hear my stomach grumbling but you were so quiet and so warm like wool. And I
woke you up at six thirty with a if you were going to die would you rather be shot in the head or die slowly and I forgot what you said
but with you I know my answer.
Phoebe Lyons was the only Girl Scout in her troop that didn’t know how to braid. She likes her squeaky bike and her dented guitar, but likes to write most of all.
Cassoday Harder is a twenty-year-old photographer inspired by youth, femininity, and summer. View more of her work on Flickr or visit her website.