vows by erin satterthwaite

In our nameless suburb in our nameless state we skipped through square green lawns with

white socks and braces-straight teeth. We kneeled between the wooden pews and prayed to

someone, anyone. We walked to the Rite-Aid to get Thrifty ice cream. We licked the melted ice

cream off our fingers and sat criss-crossed on the sidewalk curb. We biked past the street with

the homes built in the 1980s. We would make up stories about the unholy ghosts that haunt

them. I loved the feeling of my unbrushed knotted hair. I loved pressing my tongue to my gums

where a new grown-up tooth would grow into. I cried to my mother when I stubbed my toes. It

didn’t really hurt, I just wanted to be near her. I wonder when It really began to hurt.

My best friend, Alma, had long dark hair and green eyes. She lifted her little arms to the sky

when we rode our bikes. Mine stayed on the handlebars with an anxious grip. We sat in the

grass listening to strangers' conversations. I hugged my knees and hung my head down. She

didn’t have the inhibitions I had. She smiled with her teeth. She spoke with assurance. I began

to listen to her words like gospel. We took the bus to the Victoria Secret in the mall. We shared

tangled headphones plugged into a hot pink iPod. I looked at my reflection in the window of the

bus. I didn’t like the eyes that were looking back at me. I wished my reflection would fade away.

I wanted my reality to look like it did when I shut my eyes tight. I didn’t enjoy being me. It was

strenuous and laborious for little pay. I let my thoughts consume me. I was always so worried,

life seemed so anxious and mean. I didn't want to live it. I looked over to Alma as we scurried

down the aisles of the mall. I made a vow to myself that I would be more like her as I clutched a

neon-green lace thong. I began to embrace pain when I realized I couldn't avoid it anymore.

At the church social, we rolled our eyes and crossed our arms. We giggled when they told us to

make space for God. Make room for Jesus. Make room for the Holy Ghost. This space is about

three inches. Two inches and you lose your divine right to salvation. We pressed our hips

together to the top forty songs on the gymnasium floor and gleefully lost our divine right to

salvation. We sat on the porch underneath the moths that circled the dim yellow light. It was the

first party I had ever been to. Alma always captured the room with her charm. I held my plastic

cup and watched her. I let the sweet syrup from my drink melt over my tongue. We kissed boys

just to say we did. I found them to be as dull as the streetlights that shut off strictly at eleven pm

when the town went to sleep.

At the county fair Alma talked to the older boys. Joseph and Eric, from the next town over. I

always told her mom she was sleeping over at my home. I wondered why she let these weird,

boring guys talk to her. I wondered why I let these weird boring guys talk to me. We all rode the

ferris wheel together. Looking out at the suburban skyline and yawning. I kissed the older boy

because it felt rude not to. I laid on the floor with a wet cloth on my forehead while my sister and

mother screamed at each other downstairs. I hated that we weren’t normal. I hated that the

neighbors could hear. I hated that we weren’t a sweet sitcom. Cue music, life lessons, all hug,

and scene. I rode my bike to Alma’s house with tears in my eyes. She gave me a glass of warm

water. I told her what happened. Jagged glass cutting up my tongue with each word I spoke.

Alma listened with her hand on her heart. Every word I said became a sweet hymn.

Christian was the first boy that didn’t bore me. He was the only boy in school who wore

American Apparel because his mom would drive him to the college town an hour away from his

home. My mom looked at the price tags and rolled her eyes. She drove me to the T.J. Maxx ten

minutes away from my home. I looked at the girls on Tumblr wearing ripped jean shorts and

climbing chain-linked fences at night. I used these girls as the blueprint for my youth. I kissed

Christian against the chain-linked fence that surrounded the reservoir. I heard coyotes yell into

the night sky and thought I was just like them. I told Alma that we even used tongue. He had to

teach me because I hadn’t French kissed anyone before. I made him CDs with all my favorite

songs. I drew his name surrounded by tiny hearts on the cover. I asked him what he thought of

every song. He said they were “cool”. I wondered if love was meant to be this underwhelming.

When Alma had sex with Joseph she drove over to my house to tell me about it. I listened to

every detail while resting my chin on my knees. I put my finger to my lips when she got too loud.

I was terrified my mother would hear. But she was never listening. No one was ever really

listening. We cupped our hands over our mouths to conceal our laughter. I listened to every

word Alma said. I said a prayer to someone, anyone.

When Christian broke my heart after the homecoming dance I cried in Alma’s car for an hour.

We got Jack in the Box Fries and drove to the train tracks. Legend had it that a woman was run

over on her wedding day. She now spends eternity wailing across the train tracks in a white

dress. We listened to our music through a muffled car speaker and sang at the top of our lungs.

We promised ourselves we would never spend eternity like that. Our eternity would be hot pink

iPod summer nights and sweet sugar syrup melting on our tongues.

We had left our hometowns in pursuit of our prophecy to attend state universities. We vowed to

always stay best friends. We vowed that we were each other's soulmates. Sealed with blood

and spit. We had made our bible and we had sung our proverbs. We had written all these

commandments but there was no God to enforce them. I continued to kiss boys who made

interesting art and hoped one day I could be interesting too. I don’t know where I learned that I

wasn't interesting. That I was a burden. That I was someone to be endured, not enjoyed. A

series of stiff hugs and forced smiles. A series of frustrated sighs when I dropped the silverware

or left the dishes in the kitchen sink. I tried to conjure up love where I could find it. I tried to

conjure up love where it did not exist. Watching a series of men with their heads in their hands.

Alma always found me interesting. She read my poems with a grin on her face. She asked me

how I could even think this stuff up. I looked down at my socks and smiled. But, I don’t think I

ever really listened. I was busy trying to fulfill my prophecy to find the one love. The One to wipe

my tears. The One to hold my hand. The One to say that everything is ok. The One to walk

beside me in front of a series of eyes to prove I am worthy of this One Love. This One

underwhelming love. Yellow two-story home. Red six-seat car. White wedding dress. Wailing

and wandering in darkness.

When I think about love I don’t think about The One anymore. I think about it all. I think of the

letters sent across state lines. I think of the phone calls with Alma where I laugh so hard it brings

me to the floor. I think of the ice cream that dripped between our fingers. I think about the stories

we would tell. I think about our knotted hair. When I shut my eyes I don’t see darkness anymore.

When I shut my eyes I see Alma on her bike with her arms reaching up towards heaven. I think

about how much living hurts all the time. I think about how we love it anyways. I think about our

vows. I am thankful for the moments when my heart is full of sorrow and I get to I lick the salty

tears that roll down my cheeks. I am thankful when she wraps her arms around me. I am

thankful for the love, oh god the love. Melting on my tongue.

Erin Satterthwaite is a writer based in Los Angeles. Her work can be found in Dream Boy Book Club, Spectra Poets, Bug Gift Shop, and Forever Magazine.