From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Tactile
The scratchy wool of my oversized sweater chafes against my neck, but at least the massive shoulder pads make me feel like I could survive this Cold War tension everyone keeps buzzing about on the news. I’m slumped in the passenger seat, my fingers cramping as I twist the slick plastic of this stupid Rubik’s Cube, trying to align the stubborn squares while "Lady" blares softly from the radio. The gas station sign says $1.19 now, and my dad is literally fuming about the prime rate going up again, which is just like, gag me with a spoon. I ignore him and pull my neon leg warmers higher over my Lycra leggings, focusing on the click-clack of the puzzle and the smell of hairsprayed perms lingering in the stale November air.