Formations

“Good lord,” Doreen’s mother said when Doreen let the screen door bang shut.

Doreen shrugged and made herself a sandwich, sharing a bite with the dog. Then she went into her room, pulled up her shirt and admired the bruise that was forming.

Lisa Deane had hurled softballs at her to test her reflexes because Doreen had bragged that no one could touch her. But Lisa Deane did. And Doreen knew she would.

Doreen pulled down her shirt, poking at the bruise.

“I’m leaving,” she yelled, barging back out the door. The dog watched after her, its tail slowly wagging.