Lily touches the poached lump on her forehead. The swelling hasn’t diminished as much as it has pooled south over her browbone into the soft pocket of eyelid. With the swelling has come a partial gloam drawn over her vision that she finds somehow comforting. As though her inside and outside perspectives are finally aligned. “Piñata accident,” Lily says, hoping that by ratifying the girl’s suspicions she might escape the insolent teenage watchfulness. With a slow hand, Kitten tucks the cigarettes back into the waistband of her school uniform and smirks. “Piñata, hey? That’s a good one.” The posture of the girl’s craned hip and bent knee in front of the fountain are straight from the pages of some controversial classic. A Go Ask Alice of our times. Lily holds up the silver Zippo that Lloyd gave her. Shakes it a few times either to help eke out a bit of flame or distract the girl’s intense watch by reflecting sunlight in her eyes. Through the oily fingerprints on the metal case, Lily catches a glimpse of her own face, a sizable portion of it red and distended.
