The new girl can take her eyeball out.
The first time she does it, everyone is sitting on the carpet while Ms. Perry reads aloud from a book. The first one to notice is Benji, who never pays attention in class, but notices everything else, including her, in the back with her head down. He exclaims, “Look at Sharon!” even though her name is Shannon.
Her eye dangles out of its socket, attached to the nerve. She plays with it, batting it like a cat with string, twirling the nerve around her finger. When Benji shouts, she looks up, confused, and when she sees everyone staring back at her, she realizes what’s wrong.
“Oh,” she says as everyone jumps up and moves away from her. “I’m sorry.”
Even Ms. Perry looks sick. “You need to go to the nurse—”
“No, I don’t,” Shannon replies. “I’m fine.”
And just like that, she pulls her eyelid up and shoves the eye back into place. It pops into her socket perfectly.
To describe her classmates as bewildered would be an understatement. They are disgusted. Only Jake, who has pet roaches and once brought one to class, only for it to escape and end up in Ms. Perry’s coat, has anything positive to say: “That’s pretty cool.”
Bianca says nothing, but she keeps thinking about Shannon’s eye, wondering what it would feel like.
* * *
Shannon still takes her eye out. She says she has to do it. She can’t help it. No one wants to sit next to her, and even Ms. Perry doesn’t want to get too close, so Shannon sits alone, at a small desk in the corner, and keeps entirely to herself. Bianca watches her and draws her in the margins of her notebook.
The eye-popping is just one of Shannon’s many eccentricities.
Once, during lunch, Shannon reaches down her throat and pulls out a small, black slug, alive and squirming. She leaves it on the ground, and after everyone else has left, Bianca cradles it in her palm. She thinks it’s beautiful. She kisses the slug and pretends it’s Shannon’s forehead.
About lunch: Shannon never eats. Not a bite of her mac and cheese, not a sip of her milk. Martha says she once saw Shannon hiding behind a shrub, shoveling leaves and grass and flowers into her mouth.
But the really weird thing is how nonchalant Shannon is about everything. She doesn’t seem to notice the distaste everyone has for her. When she’s left on her own during group projects or field trips, she has no reaction. She never speaks unless spoken to, which in itself is rare, and never approaches anyone. Bianca isn’t sure if Shannon is naturally withdrawn, or if she’s just accepted that no one wants to be around her.
Bianca is the exception. She wants to be around her.
During recess, Bianca finds Shannon in the narrow space between one of the portable classrooms and the surrounding gate. There are four more slugs crawling on her legs.
“Hi,” Bianca says, the first word she’s spoken to her.
Shannon doesn’t respond. She plucks a dandelion growing from the cracks in the concrete and eats it.
Bianca squeezes in and sits next to her. Shannon doesn’t object, so she assumes it’s okay.
Neither of them talk. Shannon keeps eating dandelions. Bianca’s fingers itch with the urge to draw her. She’s pretty, Bianca thinks. Her eyes are a deep brown. Her black hair is always styled in two long pigtails and looks soft.
“Don’t you have any friends?” Bianca asks.
“I can make my own friends.” Shannon gestures to the slugs. These are thicker than the one from before. She pets one: a light touch, the kind of touch you give someone you truly love.
“What about people friends?”
Shannon looks at Bianca like this is the most preposterous idea she’s ever heard.
“I mean,” Bianca says, “slugs don’t talk. You can’t have sleepovers with them and stay up all night talking.”
Shannon shakes her head. Her pigtails sway. “That doesn’t matter. I like it that way.”
That’s when she does it: her left eye bulges far out. Even Bianca, who has seen Shannon do this many times, is surprised when she sees it up close, shocked by how suddenly it happens. Bianca leans back a little.
Shannon grasps her eyeball and eases it further out of the socket, until once again it’s dangling against her cheek.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” Bianca asks.
“Not at all.”
Bianca lifts her hand. “Can I…?”
Shannon’s eyeball is firmer than Bianca expected. It’s moist and rubbery. The cornea squishes when she pokes it. Shannon doesn’t flinch or voice any complaints. Bianca is honored that she’s letting her do this. That has to be a sign of trust, right?
The bell rings.
Before Shannon can get up, Bianca says, “Wait,” and kisses her eyeball.
A few days later, Shannon moves away. The rest of the class is relieved. Bianca doesn’t mention what happened between them to anyone. She never sees Shannon again, and never finds out where she is, or how she’s doing. But Bianca treasures that memory, long after she’s grown up, and remembers Shannon whenever she sees a slug or a dandelion.
Luz Rosales is a nonbinary Mexican-American fiction writer fascinated by the dark and morbid. They are a Los Angeles native and are currently attending Mount Saint Mary’s University, where they are pursuing a degree in History. They can be found on Twitter @TERRORCORES.