"Chronically Dolores" by Maya Van Wagenen, Chapters 16–18

He pulled his phone into his hovel.

“Try not to look quite so smug, Dolores,” my mother cautioned.

That I’m a person, not the punchline of a joke, not a freaking limerick.

The camera takes us through the opulent textures of the Ludens’ world: marble floors, wrought-iron railings, silk curtains.

Shae and Dolores are sitting side by side, propped up against the many decorative pillows, eating bonbons from a gilded box.

My brother’s love for him is unrequited and yet unyielding.

My brother’s love for him is unrequited and yet unyielding.

What if there was something inherently bad about me that had made Shae stop—
That was enough spiraling, I decided.

“It doesn’t seem possible that one person could encapsulate all the worst sensory experiences, but he does. He really does.”

Her piercing, unwavering gaze was reserved now for her hands, or her feet, or the top of her knees.

I couldn’t believe how unreasonable Terpsichore’s mother was.

“I’m sorry if that disappoints you, but I’m not going to change my mind just because you want to exploit her gifts for the school’s theater club.”

I put on a haughty voice.

“I hate using public restrooms, because I never know what to expect. And I abhor automatic flush toilets.”

“The combination of your subpar bladder and your research-oriented mind places you in a rare position to chronicle your experiences for the betterment of countless neurodivergent people or people with mobility issues or even people like you who urinate frequently.”

Taking advantage of the chaos, Casimir, now half-naked, ran through the house, leaving the poor disgruntled fowl abandoned at the base of the dress form.

“Impish little changeling!”

It was possible to live without one, to upgrade to an external urostomy bag without nerve endings.

“All I have to do now is find someone who wants to pursue a vocation selling holistic skincare. It’s all natural ingredients, you can put it anywhere on your body, you can even use it on dogs, cats—”
“Oh my God,” I muttered. 

“You’re a purist. I respect that. And our vanilla is the best out of all those other ice cream shops. Maybe the best vanilla out there. A lot of work went into making it perfect.”

“Paper thickness. And decals. What with that being your livelihood.”

Manipulating Terpsichore didn’t feel sexy or salacious.

Between hourly bathroom trips and a lingering spiritual malaise, I got about as much sleep as Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas Eve, but without the preachy specters and redemption arc.

“We are on a major thoroughfare. Do not be taking your pants off.”

Obviously, I don’t have the budget for such a smooth transition from ‘plain country bumpkin'.