Thirteen on ice, skating, I died. Boys dragged soft fields with the lifts in their shoes. We'd gone in search of the other, the fat girl. Hurried to drown her past Hurricane Ridge. White snowed on white, ice over feathers. Cutters knit sweaters, buried alive. Our parents wore dog suits and panted through breakfast. Once she was me. We'd burned her last spring. Girls crocheted scarves, feigned a rope bridge from fringe. Rescue, blue scissors slitting black ice. Blades etched fine nets on the upside-down lake. My choice was speech or a taffeta skirt.