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the news is on during dinner and it toughens you up. You also watch I Dream of Jeannie and that makes as much sense. When you’re a girl yellow is your favorite color; you see it everywhere—the underbelly of birds as they fly overhead, the disease your father has but doesn’t yet know about, the rays of sunlight streaming through clouds that you know has something to do with angels. All yellow comes from God. When you’re a girl, you are supposed to like pink or red, of course not blue, and no one ever thinks about green or yellow. You understand this and your desire for magic powers becomes stronger. When you’re a girl watching all that news you start to carry a knife, sneak it into your pocket. It’s a green Girl Scout knife that folds safely, earned you a badge, and always requires you to get help to open it. You are not sure why, but it makes you feel better. When you’re a girl you get growing pains so severe you cry. You poke and pinch and slap yourself to make your body stop but it does what it wants. Under clothes, your skin looks diseased. Under skin, your body is moving. At Girl Scouts, you often have to sit still, and this is sometimes difficult. When you are a girl, you learn not to show too much, to say “pink” even though it is a lie, to try and blink the world away. You read books beyond your years, books on the crimes that are always on at dinner, crimes that you know your body is moving towards, your body one more thing you cannot blink away from harm. When you’re a girl, a knife is never enough.