Бойцовский клуб

           "Mymother!You’respillingherallover!" 

           Weneededtomakesoap,Isaywithmyfacepressedupbehindhercar. Weneededtowashmypants,topaytherent,tofixtheleakinthegasline. Itwasn’tme. 

           ItwasTyler. 

           Marlascreams, "Whatareyoutalkingabout?"andtwistsoutofherskirt. I’mscramblingtogetupoffthegreasedfloorwithanarmfulofMarla’sIndiacottonprintskirt,andMarlainherpantiesandwedgieFeelsandpeasantblousethrowsopenthefreezerpartofthefridge,andinsidethere’snocollagentrustfund. 

           There’stwooldflashlightbatteries,butthat’sall. 

           "Whereisshe?" 

           I’malreadycrawlingbackwards,myhandsslipping,myshoesslippingonthelinoleum,andmyasswipingacleanpathacrossthedirtyMoorawayfromMarlaandthefridge. IholduptheskirtsoIdon’tDavetoseeMarla’sfacewhenItellher. 

           Thetruth. 

           Wemadesoapoutofit. Her. Marla’smother. 

           "Soap?" 

           Soap.Youboilfat.Youmixitwithlye.Yougetsoap. 

           WhenMarlascreams,Ithrowtheskirtinherfaceandrun. Islip. Irun. 

           Aroundandaroundthefirstfloor,Marlarunsafterme,skiddingmthecorners,pushingoffagainstthewindowcasingsformomentum. Slipping. 

           Leavingfilthyhandprintsofgreaseandfloordirtamongthewallpaperflowers.Fallingandslidingintothewainscoting,gettingbackup,running.