Jessica Klimesh
Lessons
The older girls clothe the younger girls in their hand-me-downs. They say this was my favorite T-shirt, too bad it doesn’t fit me anymore. Or they say I wore this dress to my First Communion. Or these Keds were my first Velcro shoes.
The older girls sigh at the memories.
The older girls fix the younger girls’ hair, then apply makeup to the younger girls’ faces—concealer, blush, mascara, eye shadow, lipstick. They bedeck the younger girls as though they were playthings, dolls, fashioning them into unrecognizable silhouettes of their former selves.
The older girls say to each other remember when? And they all nod, say yes, uh-huh. Of course the older girls remember when they were the younger girls.
~
The older girls say here, wear these earrings and put on these bracelets, this necklace. And they tell the younger girls that they should always wear a ring on their ring fingers.
The older girls smile and say to the younger girls: Look how beautiful you are! Don’t you feel special?
The older girls tell the younger girls what to expect when they grow older. They explain how to flirt, how to wiggle their hips when they move, and how to walk in heels. They say when you smile, you don’t want to show too many teeth but just enough. And they say speak loud enough to be heard but not too loud, except when you scream. Your screams should always be loud.
The older girls take a step back and view their young protégés.
~
The older girls prepare the younger girls for first dates, proms, and weddings. They dress the younger girls in their old prom dresses, their old wedding dresses. The younger girls are stiff and hard to dress in such delicate material. The older girls bend the younger girls’ arms and legs, whichever way they will contort, and try to keep the younger girls from falling over. They lay them on the bed, hold them upside down.
The older girls say that tight dresses are always the hardest. But they tell the younger girls that it’s worth all the fuss.
~
The older girls tell the younger girls not to move too much. They spray their hair into place and tell them not to cry because they’ll smudge their mascara and not to drink anything or wipe their mouths because their lipstick will smear. And they say don’t play too hard or you’ll rip your dress or get a run in your stocking or turn your ankles in those shoes. Then the older girls confer with each other, turn back to the younger girls and say no no no no, you mustn’t move at all.
The older girls lift the younger girls up and set them on a shelf, each one in her own individual pose.
There, that’s good, that’s better, the older girls tell the younger girls. You will be safe there.
Jessica Klimesh (she/her) is a US-based writer and editor whose creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Frog, Cleaver, Atticus Review, trampset, Bending Genres, and Funicular, among others. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net. Learn more at jessicaklimesh.com or jekwrites.substack.com
