Chronically Dolores: Chapters 4–6

“Something reproductive,” the girl continued, “or a urinary tract infection, perhaps? Do you take baths? You shouldn’t.”

“And unaffiliated with a sororal organization.”

“We’re going to do a role-playing activity. In your pairs, you’re going to come up and improvise a conversation with the prompt that I give you. These prompts are going to be a little harder than the last ones, because I really want to help you practice communication in more difficult, real-life scenarios.”

The movement was mechanical, reflexive, empty.

“You lost a best friend. It’s serendipitous. I’m looking for a best friend, actually. Quite urgently.”

Mateo’s expression strobed back and forth between sheer elation and abject terror as he, Johann, and I got into the back of the family car—Mom’s Toyota Corolla.

Mateo’s expression strobed back and forth between sheer elation and abject terror as he, Johann, and I got into the back of the family car—Mom’s Toyota Corolla.

My eyes watered with envy as my brother piled the braised roast, potatoes, and onions onto his plate, drizzling Valentina over the entirety of his meal.

This ideological standoff had been going on for as long as I could remember.

As always, the first few minutes were devoid of all conversation.

Just the sounds of chewing and glass bottles of Jarritos lifted and set down on the vinyl gingham tablecloth.

My aunt’s food was a fully immersive experience and deserved the moment of silent, contemplative appreciation it elicited.

I tried not to feel conspicuous as the rest of the family glanced up from their food.

My mom’s voice had a false levity to it, but the little birds on her ears started quaking, as if they sensed the coming storm and wanted to take flight.

“I only sort of remember it, and Dolores was a baby, but apparently Tía Vera decided we were in mortal peril. Normally only priests can baptize someone, but in situations where there’s a threat of dying, any baptized person can step in and use whatever’s at hand.”

My aunt spun around with a magnanimous expression.

St. Jude’s stare is particularly plaintive.

“What do you mean? They’re doing that. Phosphorescence isn’t enough for you?”

Two years without friends had left my once-confident brother socially inept.

My troubles as a just-turned-fourteen-year-old didn’t begin to compare to the ones my aunt had faced with a dead mom and a gaggle of younger siblings to raise.

Dad went into the bathroom to start the shower heating—a task that could take anywhere from thirty seconds to twenty minutes, depending on the fickle whims of the pipe gods.

As a kid, I believed that the perfection and affluence of her world was a direct result of the Ludens being the kind of people who deserved good things.

The two lock pinkies, sparking a burst of magenta light and the sound of ethereal chimes.

Shae’s ruddy face is illuminated by the glow.

Instead I just sat and stewed in seething rage, staring at the ceiling.