Amy Sacks
By Robin Zlotnick
Oh my god it’s Amy Sacks. Whadda bitch for still looking so good. Probably haven’t seen her since graduation in 20—shmershmer, and now, here she is, about to whoosh past me on the street in front of Bryant Park like it’s no big deal. She sips a cold brew, a grownup now, and still I shrink. Instantly. Like the kids in that movie that get zapped and ride the ants in their yard. I haven’t thought about her in years and here she is and zap there I go. I am minuscule and irrelevant and why does she still do this to me?
Doubt she’ll recognize me. It’s not like we were friends in high school. The class was small. Everyone knew everyone, but not everyone had to be nice to everyone. Amy was a different category of human being. My face oozed; her skin was smooth, like a Sims character. I agonized over angsty AIM away messages while she was actually away. At parties. Drinking and smoking and making out. Amy Sacks pouted and teachers melted, leaking out big fat drips of extra credit and extensions, only for Amy. Almost every teacher, anyway.
The dirtiest look as she stormed out of Stetler’s classroom in a huff, clearly not getting the grade she was begging for.
Strutting by me, nose up so high I saw inside her nostrils, adjusting the spaghetti strap of her tank on her perfect tan shoulder.
She’d just gotten back from Aruba.
Stetler’s glance up at me from his desk over his glasses as I passed his room. His conspiratorial nod.
A nod that said he didn’t fall for crap like that from people like Amy Sacks.
A nod that said my wit would take me further than Amy Sacks’ shoulders would take her.
I nodded back in solidarity, taking comfort in the fact that an adult I knew was on my team.
Do I look at her and smile? I do not. Stop and say hi? Hell no. Before I can think any more, she is here. Amy Fuckin’ Sacks. In a blindingly white blouse, perfectly fucking white — how? — and a skirt I definitely I saw on Charlize Theron in a magazine. It looks better on Amy, too. Ugh. Bet she gets this outfit dry-cleaned. Her hair is bouncy and curled and how is she not sweating? Whadda bitch.
We lock eyes for a second then quickly look past each other, both like, “Oh, what is that in the distance, just there beyond the person I’ve realized I once knew but do not under any circumstances want to say hello to now?” I can’t help myself, my head spins to her like a weak-ass magnet and I spy a bead of sweat running down the back of her neck. AHA! She does sweat.
I nodded back in solidarity, taking comfort in the fact that an adult I knew was on my team.
My team, for once.
A nod that said my wit would take me further than Amy Sacks’ shoulders would take her.
I was clever.
A nod that said he didn’t fall for crap like that from people like Amy Sacks.
A cautious nod.
His conspiratorial nod.
His surprised nod.
Stetler’s glance up at me from his desk over his glasses as I passed his room.
His panicked glance.
She’d just gotten back from Aruba.
Strutting by me, nose up so high I saw inside her nostrils,
which flared in time with her heaving chest,
adjusting the spaghetti strap of her tank on her
Peeling, scratched raw shoulder.
Red cheeks.
Undone hair.
Bead of sweat down the back of her neck.
She does sweat.
The dirtiest look
The dirtiest look
as she stormed out of Stetler’s classroom in a huff, clearly not getting the grade she was begging for.
Clearly getting something she never asked for.
The dirtiest look.
And god, my nod. A nasty pact.
Clip clop of a carriage pulled by a horse wearing blinders, and dumbly, like the big fat idiot I am, I think, That was me.
Teenage dread erases your periphery. You plod on, noisy outside but inwardly imploding, all-consuming angst airbrushing the crags of your compassion into nothingness.
I taste tangy regret and turn to see her, but Amy Sacks is gone, having continued to march valiantly forward.
THE END