Young Writers Society

(This is something I wrote a while ago but never revised, so reviews would be really cool! The rating is for some questionable subject matter. This was originally written in all lowercase, so if you spot any capitalization errors a) I'm sorry and b) that'd be neat if you could point me in the right direction and I'll fix it! Thanks.)

(Another note: while the concept of a general recipe for making a girl is a very interesting one that I may properly flesh out later, it is not actually used very much in this piece. This was originally written as a sort of  biography for one character in particular, which is why it may sound a bit too specific and/or personal to be describing girls in general. I hope that cleared that up!)

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YOU WILL NEED one large mixing bowl, one wooden spoon, plenty of napkins, and teen spirit.

LET'S START OFF WITH the basics, shall we?

ADD one cup of milk to be drunk before bed, to be painted on just above the upper lip, to dip Momma's homemade cookies into. A stick of butter. A dash of salt. Half a cup of flours in grandmother's garden, plucked from their stems by plump little fingers to be worshipped more than the old woman herself (and oh, what a feat that is). A few dance classes may be poured in as well, boa feathers and too many tutus, clumsy plies and pointed toes. Two teaspoons of stray cat hairs, two teaspoons of muddy rain boots, two teaspoons of spoiled little brat and not enough presents and gold star stickers and my new skirt is much prettier than yours, just for the fun of it. A tablespoon of parents not home, parents never home, a few cups of grandma's chicken soup with rice again. A stick of butter fingers. A dash of salty attitude. Ten ounces of tree sap and sticky fingertips and old popsicle sticks, grass-stained dresses and wet toes, fireflies in the palm of your hand, leaves in your hair. Three cups of years and years of pet ladybugs dying, and not knowing why.

STIR TOGETHER to the beat of sirens until mixture is the color of burnt wood. Add another tablespoon of parents not home, parents never home, and never will be. Sprinkle a pinch of mother's ashes over the top.

POUR two pints of tear streaks on the pillows that should be there but for some reason aren't, crack open a few late nights of stinging eyes and ringing ears and a dry mouth. Three teaspoons of patent leather shoes in puddles on the pavement, fidgeting at the memorial and the reception and the little pats on the shoulder and kisses on the forehead and not knowing how to weep. An ounce of grandmother's chicken soup with rice forever, never too many flowers, always too many cat hairs. Preheat the oven. Add three quarters of a cup of mumbling in class and whispers in the hallway and sorry stares and no due dates. Three quarters of a cup of smeared lip gloss and spilled lemonade and ink stains, a teaspoon or two of i's dotted with hearts and scribbling in notebooks and blushes and crushes on boys. A hint of crushes on girls, but those are secret, those aren't even written into diaries, just in case. Throw in a bit of an education, a bit of distance divided by rate equals something, the radius of whatever, the hypothesis, the metaphor, the free market. A wallet-full of pointe shoes, the damn things.

POP YOUR MIX INTO THE OVEN. Watch as your creation sizzles and cracks. Grandmother's garden becomes riding in janky cars to the forest at night, music too loud, music not loud enough, eating berries off of bushes and wondering if they're poisonous or not, and not knowing which to hope for. Falling asleep and waking up with leaves in your hair, fingers sticky with not only tree sap but vodka and piss, popsicles turning into cancer sticks. Chicken soup with rice turns into swallowing chunks of broken glass, smoke rising from parted lips (it must be in the genes), kissing boys and not caring where their spit has been. Coming home late and telling lies like a first language, crying in front of the mirror over nothing to make up for all the times there was something. Plump little fingers become bones. Bones become rainwater and chewed up, spit out flower stems.

TAKE OUT OF OVEN. Watch the smoke as it billows upward and dissipates, because you're going to overcook this. Let cool for two months. Once at a reasonable temperature, spread on a thick layer of little white lies, smooth out Nana's disappointment over the top, get creative with the ways to express how the silences are endless and yet the noise never ends. Really emphasize the shouting and the heavy breaths and the shattered teacups and the staying in bed all day and the wanting, wanting, wanting to get better, to just get better. Drizzle on the dancing and the nothing else, performing in school shows but not going out after with the rest, or going out but not getting high or drunk or dead.

APPLY the redemption and good reputation gradually, little by little, sprinkle on the wearing your hair up in buns and eventually just cutting it all off, and the clean clothes, and the clear skin, and the getting up at eight in the morning to have breakfast with friends, and the good grades, and the happy grandmother. Patent leather turns to high heels and pointed flats, ink stains turn to fashion magazines and posters of french models and little star stickers on the ceiling. Let your nearly finished project wrap itself into a cocoon of suppression and denial and watch as it blossoms into a thing of admiration and envy and even, dare I say, power. Listen as its heels click along the floor, watch as those two teaspoons of spoiled little brat bubble up again to the surface.

DECORATE with the joys of graduation, the tears of leaving home, the embarrassment and yet the apathetic acceptance of living off of grandmama's money, and her money alone, because you're too spoiled and too tired and just a little bit too frightened of the world to even try and make it on your own. Depict images of buying a new flat, going to some clique-y school to study dance because that's the only thing keeping you sober right now, if you can even call yourself sober. Add in the fact that you know the stories of the cigarette butts on the side of the street, between the sidewalk cracks, in the gutter, because you put them there, a year ago, a month ago, a week ago, just now.

THIS RECIPE SERVES none. When finished, the end result should be extremely toxic. A girl cannot and must not be consumed, cannot be chewed up or sucked on, cannot be swallowed like a pill and chased down with a glass of water or vodka or spit; she is the bile rising in the throat, the smoke in the dimly-lit room at dawn, the outrageousness of a human being thinking only of herself.