html xmlns:og='' xmlns:expr=''> Lounging at the Waldorf: Goat Girls


Saturday, January 19, 2013

Goat Girls

She hangs out by herself, mostly. Decorating her hair with those tiny white flowers that grow on the football field instead of joining the other girls in ripping each other to shreds. It's like she doesn't even know they're weeds. It's like she thinks they're precious.

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Because of this inability to tell the right thing from the wrong thing, the best thing from the thing that is so uncool it might as well be singing hymns in a church basement, the girls of Seaford Middle School decided she must have been stuck up, stupid, or stoned.

"Probably all three," said Anna Price, one side of her lip curled up in disgust.

alison scarpulla

They laughed at her gauzy skirts and swirling lace tights. Her gray nail polish and the underarm hair that grew undisturbed. Her name was Charlotte. But then again, all poetry writing, journal toting girls who look like they floated out of a fairytale are named Charlotte.

Not only did Charlotte write, she made paintings of mythical characters - nymphs, goat girls, sword wielding men on horseback leaping on mountainsides, and recorded her very own dreamy synth songs on her laptop.

Socially, she was contaminated, a germ to arm yourself against. Creatively, she was a germ, too: unavoidable, ideas hidden in crevasses, her projects touching everyone and never asking first.

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Everyday between 3rd period and 4th, the two girls passed each other in the hallway. Charlotte was always looked as though she were someplace else, a beach or a forest. No surprise there.

One afternoon, Anna wondered if the two of them could ever be friends, putting flowers in each other's hair, making those songs together.

alison scarpulla

But the thought didn't last long. Why on earth should Charlotte be so content to be Charlotte? And why the hell should Anna care?

"Freak," Anna muttered, pushing Charlotte's shoulder just enough to knock her off her granny boots and into the lockers with a satisfying thud.

And instead of thinking about what had just happened, Anna kept walking, first wishing for a boy to like then wishing for a new pair of jeans.

alison scarpulla

All images by Alison Scarpulla.

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