Thought.is

There are so many dressings on the table. Only psychopaths have that many salad dressings.

Pumpkin-flavored beer is in the fridge, fall officially starts tomorrow, and tonight is the premiere for “American Horror Story” creator Ryan Murphy’s brand new horror comedy series.

“Does it look like you dreamt it?”

I glanced down the hill. The factories, the bleached grass, the little fenced-off section. The field.

“Yeah,” I said, then waved her away. “Go, hurry up, you don’t want to miss anything good.”

Gretchen stayed overnight for New Year’s Eve 1998. Clay and Mom had some stupid office party to go to so we were left home alone with popcorn and some movies from Blockbuster. He had the nerve to say he “trusted” us because we were such “big girls” now.

“What did you remember, Amanda?” she asked quietly. “You saw something. Whatever it was, it was so bad it made you sick. It’s about that, isn’t it?”

“That’s right Toto, back to Kansas! Because there’s no place like home for the spirit of Christmas.”

No place like home. What a joke.

“What did we practice for all week, Mandy?”

I hated those practices. I hated baseball, too, after a while.

It wasn’t in an envelope. It didn’t have a postmark or a stamp or even an address. It must’ve just been… left there.

In bold Sharpie-black letters, the disk read: BALLET RECITAL 1992