TITLE: The Mean Freckle
My grandpa once told me a broken mirror meant a broken soul, and if that saying is true, I am doomed with a capital D because I dropped my mother’s gold-handled mirror. It cracked, and I’m not talking about a prissy little break. I’m talking about a black, jagged jack o’lantern grin. The mirror is RUINED, and no amount of glue is going to fix it. I’m RUINED, and no amount of pleading, praying, or acting cute is going to fix the situation.
It happened in slow motion. I was perched on the side of my mama’s iron bed, and the mirror’s handle was wedged between my right big toe and the tall-boy toe next to it. I was leaning over, pulling my hair back and looking sideways at the back of my neck when my sweaty dirty toes s--l--o--w--l--y gave way.
My brain ordered, “Stop! Hold on!”
My toes replied, “It’s too late.”
The mirror slipped and flipped, crashing to the floor. I leaned over the side of the bed, staring downward at the mirror. Another girl with a fractured face glared back at me. I yelled, “It’s all your fault. Now what are you going to do?” The face in the mirror was lopsided and missing features where the crack danced. I plopped backwards onto my mama’s bed and moaned, “Goodness grapes! I’m in a hot mess now.”