Slack 

Do you remember when you wrapped a jump rope

around your waist? You handed me the

slack, hands extended like a tightrope walker

atop the wooden frame of the top

bunk. We were surrounded by posters

of guys you called “cute,” mostly 

One Direction. I liked Harry best,

but you liked Harry best, 

which meant I actually

liked Louis best. 

I sat on the top bunk and held the slack of the 

sparkly jump rope like an anchor while you

walked along the railing

so I could catch you if you fell. 

I knew you wouldn’t fall, pulling

me down with you. You walked with

grace, a ten-year-old supermodel in

Claire’s lip gloss.

Do you remember leaving my house

and yelling to my 

sister that you stole her

favorite teddy bear? I

hid it in my room for you, playing along

with your prank, listening to her

cry as your cruelty 

turned into mine. 

I left plenty of slack between myself and

and the waistband of your denim skirt

where you tucked the 

jump rope. You always had cooler 

clothes than me, even

in the flash games you 

played while I sat next to you and 

watched. The only game I got to play was

Minecraft—I gathered wood and

mined the stone blocks for you to build the

house that you so graciously

allowed me to live in with

you. Do you remember

telling me to hold the jump rope 

“really really really tight?”

I knew it wouldn’t catch you, the

flimsy plastic rope. You didn’t tie a 

knot. Do you remember that you didn’t

listen when I told you to tie a knot?

Then you fell.

I dropped the jump rope 

and lunged, snatching at your

flailing body. I heard a pop and a 

scream as the seam of your

black tank top ripped and slipped 

from my hand.

You were fine.

I slowed your fall.

Do you remember shouting at me

for dropping the jump rope?

I wish you had cut me a little slack.