Allergy Test on a Car Hood

Tay's grin reflected on the metal lining the school driveway- her teal braces, brackets glowing in harsh sun. She convinced me to skip. She always did. She said, pen poised in left hand: "Mr B's so dull-cmon, skip with me," and I scampered behind her to her car. She wanted to be an aesthetician. Or a nurse. Would practice on me. On the Honda hood, silvered by fresh scrapes, the cloth seats inside splitting open like her mouth when she said my name. She wrapped her palm around my wrist. Used safety pins in the glove compartment. Pricked me gently, like she was tying little knots in my skin and I was coming together completely. Clicked her tongue against her teeth as she worked. Sometimes, so close to my ear I could hear spit fizzing in her mouth. Sometimes, her noises of concentration bended into a melody, the red marks would dance on my arms, bowing to her pin raised like a conductor's baton-my body contained in blemishes, in scratches splotching new territory. I always reacted perfectly. True example of allergy. She made me shiver all over, tingles crawling up my back like cat claws, and I imagine if Mr. B or some other teacher saw they would've stopped us-we were ragged and giggling, we looked suspect for sure: twin foundlings cross-legged on car hood. But still. Never wanted her to lift her hand from me.