From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Sight
I’m hunched over the victrola, losing my mind to the rolling rhythm of *The Sheik of Araby* while Ma glares at my new bobbed hair and short silk hemline. The neon glow from the theater across the street bleeds through the frosted window, washing the parlor in a scandalous electric violet that makes my beaded fringe shimmer like a dream. Pa is busy grumbling about some dry headlines regarding commercial leases, but I’m far more interested in sneaking a sip of the forbidden giggle water hidden in my flask. I adjust my hat and check the mirror, wondering if I can slip past the old man before he calls me a stool pigeon for staying out past midnight.