The Fat Girl Valentines

I:

The obese realtor squeezed out of her sedan. Her enormous back was
hosting a marathon of sweat beads that were darting south to the finish
line of her underwear's waistband. She'd turned the air conditioner in
the car on high, but her three hundred sixty pound frame was prone to
sweating even in the coldest weather. Her black pantsuit tucked itself
into the countless fleshy rolls along her sides as she hoisted her body
upright.

Wiping her brow and upper lip, she admired the luminous morning. The
weather was unusually hot for this time of year, even for Southern
California, and the sunny rays lacquered the neighborhood with an
idyllic mirth that was perfectly welcoming. She had arrived at the
Esperanza property half an hour early, just in case there was any
unfinished business. The house and yard were much smaller than she
remembered. She surveyed the newly painted facade and its manicured
garden, took several deep breaths, and realized everything was all
right. She was ready. She took the "Open House" sign from her car's
trunk, and plunged it into the green lawn, eager for prospective
buyers.

A few inquiries on her cell phone seemed prospective, but most of the
morning was slow, with only one couple that showed any interest. The
ditch behind the house seemed to be the main concern; people commented
that it was too creepy at night, and too dangerous when it
rained.

In the afternoon, a school bell rang faintly down the street as the
realtor watched a festive yellow Hummer pull up to the house. She
quickly hid her doodles of hearts and arrows, watching a beautiful
blond woman step out of the vehicle alone. She wore the prettiest pink
and red summer dress the realtor had ever seen. Flawless, in Jackie O
sunglasses and a sunny summer hat, the woman entered the house, her
perfume filling the air almost offensively.

The realtor showed the house, somewhat taken aback by the talkative
woman's scent. She seemed interested: "Well certainly it's not for us,"
the woman began. "You see, me and my husband are searching for a place
for his ancient grandmother, nothing too fancy." The realtor had to
stop for a moment, a little overwhelmed, as the woman droned on. "I
really think this place might be perfect for her; she's a very simple
old lady. It's so small. And it's totally wheel chair accessible, which
is just perfect-she's in a wheel chair!"

The woman was obviously new to her wealth, since she seemed to
constantly make reference to it. Her hands were as exquisite as her
face, and her skin exuded that lush, dewy quality only attainable
through weekly facials and spa treatments. The sunlight glistened on
the woman's skin as she surveyed the backyard, walking to the gates of
the ditch. The realtor felt a spasm of nervousness, wondering if the
woman would protest to the waterway as much as the others had. "Oh my
God. The ditch," said the woman.

Ready to respond, the realtor wiped the sweat from her face, when the
woman suddenly continued excitedly, "Oh my God, sometimes we used to
cross through this backyard, and through this ditch to get home faster!
I remember now-"

Shards of ice surged furiously through the realtor's veins, a familiar
cold cutting through her as she suddenly felt the early afternoon heat
dissipate. "And over here," the woman continued in amazement, "where
this tree is, there used to be a big shed, I totally remember."

II:

The fat girl valentines began appearing in kindergarten, and would
continue turning up for many years. Valentine's Day of the fifth grade
was when Belinda finally realized the true meaning behind these special
love notes-the cards of dancing hippos, of the elephant couple in tutus
swooning amid floating hearts-but this revelation would come later this
day. For now, Belinda dutifully arranged the little valentine cards
she'd received throughout the day inside a delicate construction paper
heart. She looked out the window, watching the dark clouds scrape the
sky. She noticed that the rain had finally ceased. For three days it
had showered nonstop-the streets and sidewalks so waterlogged that they
disappeared under a mantle of rainwater. The severe rainfall even
threatened to fracture the twelve-foot deep drainage ditch by the
Esperanza's house.

Belinda was advanced for her age. She had skipped ahead one grade, and
at her current age of eight, was reading at a seventh grade level. Most
of the fifth graders in the class were quiet and good, especially the
Mexican kids who had to sit in the back. But everyday at recess, the
calm niceness of these kids would transform itself into a ferocious,
brutal cruelty; a wicked heartlessness, inherent in unsupervised
children, would unleash itself on that playground, sharp as daggers and
sinful as the devil. And everyday Belinda was its benefactor. But it
was one boy's taunting that would stay with her for a lifetime.

Mario, a short hairy boy, whose upper lip was always sweaty, managed to
never go a day without tormenting Belinda. His mother, a prominent real
estate agent in the town, was very fat, fatter than anyone Belinda had
ever seen. But she seemed very nice, and once came to make tortillas
for the class. Afterwards, she handed everyone a card with a picture of
her chubby face on it.

He had trouble behaving, and almost everyday as punishment, Miss
Bucilla had to make Mario cover his face for five minutes. He was a
twelve-year-old fifth grader-held back because of his A.D.D. The second
day of school he tripped Belinda at recess, and asked her to be his
girlfriend. When she scoffed at his offer, he started calling her names
like "lard ass" and "fatso," names he frequently heard his father call
his mother. When Mario grew tired of coming up with new nicknames, he
flung spitballs at her, and occasionally pulled her hair.

But he was getting braver now, something Belinda came to understand in
those eternal minutes with him and Jesse in the Esperanza's backyard by
the shed, just a week before. In a way, she felt relieved after the
incident; she couldn't imagine Mario ever doing anything worse to her.
This week, and especially today, he had been very quiet. Somehow, she
knew it was over, Mario's name calling, his hair pulling. At lunch
yesterday, Jesse asked her never to tell what had happened in the
Esperanza's backyard. He even gave her his chocolate milk, and
apologized-saying nothing like that would ever happen again.

Yes, the teasing would be over.

Belinda focused her gaze back inside the classroom. Her teacher was
dropping off valentines and candy for all the students. Ecstatically,
Belinda ripped through the envelope, admiring the blissful cartoon
whales splashing around on the front of the Valentine. Her chubby
fingers eagerly flipped the card open to read what the teacher had
written: "To: Bilinda, From: Miss Bucilla." She was overjoyed, even
though Miss Bucilla spelled her name wrong.

She drew a happy face only on my Valentine I know it God-
God, please bless her God-please bless Miss B.

The pretty teacher told the kids they could call her Miss B-primarily
because of the Franklin twins, who couldn't say her name right, or
anything else for that matter. "No girls," she'd tell the skinny twins,
"byou, byou, byou-sil-ah." Most of the kids learned to say it within
the first week of school, but the twins were sent to work with the
wrinkled speech lady, whose breath smelled so awful it once made
Carmela Gomez throw up.

Miss B was the most beautiful lady Belinda had ever seen. She was young
and blond, and barely twenty-two years old. Belinda often found herself
daydreaming that the teacher was her real mother, especially when she
would assemble the class in a circle and read to them. Almost everyday
Belinda and Sofia, who sometimes smelled like pee, but always wore the
prettiest clothes, would battle for the coveted spot at the base of
Miss B's feet. Here, she imagined Miss B reading only to her; picturing
herself in the soft Holly Hobby pajamas smelly Sofia had brought in the
week before on share day.

Despite her occasional odd scent, Sofia was the most popular girl in
class, and also the prettiest. Her hair was blond and feathery like the
teacher's, her shoes and clothes always brand new. She rarely
interacted with Belinda; Sofia preferred the company of pretty girls,
and Veronica, who wore twenty-two Culture Club pins, and brought the
new Sheena Easton tape to share. Belinda felt invisible around these
girls. Just that morning she overheard Sofia ask one of the Franklin
twins, "What's her name again?" then watched as she quickly scribbled
out a Valentine. Sofia then wordlessly handed it to Belinda. Pretty
Sofia; the chatterbox who never got in trouble, the girly girl that
boys wanted to play with, the one who always won; she was everything
Belinda was not.

Miss Bucilla tried to calm the class down as she continued passing out
her valentines. "Okay you guys," she shouted, "we're going to begin
share time as soon as everyone has their valentines, so get in your
chairs."

The teacher retreated to the back storage room with the pretty girls,
and Veronica, to bring out cookies and punch. Belinda waited patiently
for Miss B, but was getting anxious, finally ready to share something
with the class, something even Sofia probably didn't have. Overjoyed,
Belinda admired the attractive cursive letters Miss B had written on
the valentine, when her vision suddenly went black. As she felt cold
hands over her eyes, she heard him whisper, "Guess who?"

The horror surged, almost suffocating the child.

Taking advantage of Miss B's leave, Mario, who just the day before had
to cover his face for talking during math, had smeared a thick coat of
glue on both hands. Deviously, he'd crept up behind her, smacking his
sticky hands onto her glasses. "Blubber ass," he murmured into her ear,
and pounded his palms onto her fleshy thighs.

Her little glasses, smeared and gummy, left Belinda blurry sighted as
Mario wiped the sticky white stuff all over her new red dress. He
snatched Miss B's card from her hands, and examined it thoroughly.
Belinda tried to jump from her chair to rip it from his grasp, but as
she rose, the white lace on her festive red dress caught the back of
her chair, and she tumbled with a thud. She lay flat on her stomach;
her chubby body literally glued to the floor, her dress still caught on
the chair. Throwing the Valentine at her, he spewed a thick, asthmatic
laugh and said, "See! Look at your valentine! You're fat as a whale,
even Miss. B knows you're a fatso!" and he sped off cackling.

Belinda stealthily recovered, rising quickly enough that only
stuttering Carmela saw the fall. She sat back down and fought familiar
tears while she wrestled with the knot growing tighter and tighter in
her throat. The milky glue dripped from her broken glasses and from the
new red dress her mother had bought at Zody's-the brand new dress she
was to share in front of everyone. Not even Sofia had a dress this
pretty. Belinda had begged her mother so much for it that she finally
agreed to put it on layaway. It was ruined now, torn and stained with
Mario Gomez's nasty handprints-the creamy, white gunk all over
her.

Tears demanded to spill out, but her livid eyes resisted. She didn't
care so much that her glasses were broken, that her share day dress was
ruined, or even that Mario made her fall-she wanted to cry because she
knew it wouldn't be long before Mario's story would reach all of the
other kids, even the ones that weren't mean, giving them yet another
reason not to want to be her friend. She sat frozen, feeling Carmela
snickering, and Belinda knew the girl was getting ready to confirm to
the rest of the kids what Mario had done to her.

Soon all the kids were seated, even Mario, who had already washed and
dried his hands. "Look at all of you," said Miss Bucilla, "seated so
nicely and quietly. Is everyone ready for share time?" With this
question, Belinda's tight knot plummeted from her throat into her
stomach-earlier, she had asked Miss Bucilla to go first at share
time.

"Let's have Belinda come on up, and share first today." Miss Bucilla
looked about the room and landed on Belinda's bowed head.
"Belinda&;#8230;?"

Arduously, Belinda rose, walking on flypaper carpet, thinking about how
Mario's teasing was supposed to be over; Jesse said so, and she never
told. As she passed each row, careful as a land mine layer, sudden
bursts of laughter would erupt. It became deafening with every row she
scraped by, Mario's asthmatic cackle soaring high above everyone
else's.

Belinda slowly turned around to face the commotion. As she did this,
her back was to Miss Bucilla, who immediately saw that the hem of
Belinda's dress had buried itself into her panties. She quickly
untucked it, saying "Come on you guys, settle down," then walked
Belinda to the front of the class.

Miss B took note of Belinda's disheveled look, and stained dress:
"Honey, you've really got to be careful to not be so messy, look at
your dress. Is that glue? My gosh, it's even in your hair. What's your
mommy going to say?"

She directed the class's attention to Belinda. "Everybody, now let's
pay attention," she said, "this is Belinda's first time sharing." The
silence was numbing. Miss Bucilla quietly urged Belinda to begin
sharing. Softly, looking at the floor, she began: "Today I'm going to
share my dress."

III:

When she was done sharing, Belinda sat at her desk, watching as smelly
Sofia rose to share second. "This is my new Cabbage Patch Doll that my
mom and dad bought for me last night," Sofia began. "They waited in
line to buy it at midnight, and they were on the news." Belinda saw how
all the girls admired the doll; in their eyes the same glitter of
resentment and desperation that she herself possessed every time Sofia
shared.

But Belinda couldn't care less about the doll, or Sofia. Her body
burned from Mario's thrashing. The shame of his bullying fought to fill
her up, to bury itself cavernously into that secret, desperate space
within her core. She placed her soiled, broken glasses on her face and
tried her best to iron out Miss B's crumpled card, and it was all so
clear: Bounding out of the valentine, the whales beached themselves
onto Belinda's desk-big, fat, stupid whales, kissing with delight,
oblivious to the thoughtless torment they helped create.

And as Miss B, Sofia, and all the pretty, skinny girls fawned over the
stupid looking Cabbage Patch doll, Belinda ripped open her paper heart.
They were all there. She stared through burning, deluged eyes at her
collection of fat girl valentines-of hippos and elephants, of Miss
Piggies and Petunia the Pigs; all would trample their way into her
heavy heart-a heart now as fragile as the one she'd just torn
apart.

When the final bell rang, Belinda quickly gathered her belongings.
Under her breath she cursed herself for not paying attention, and being
ready when the bell rang. "Stupid dummy! Fat cow!" she whispered. This
time, if Mario caught her, it would be her fault. She grabbed her heart
and dashed out of the room, wondering if she'd escape.

She decided that she would take the shortcut through the ditch, even
though she knew she was forbidden-even though she knew she'd have to
walk through the Esperanza's back yard to get there.

The clouds moved heavily across the skies, dark-gray and hanging so low
that sometimes Belinda felt them touch the top of her head. She bolted
like a steer from the schoolyard, her breath shallow, but her stamina
high, making sure to look over her shoulder every now and then until
finally reaching the rickety fence of the Esperanza's back yard. She
remembered Mario's sweaty face just a week before, and Jesse's nervous
giggles-his little voice telling Mario to stop while Mrs. Esperanza
moaned like a dying boar. Belinda held tight to the fence, forcing the
memory out of her consciousness as she brought the Esperanza's
overgrown, wet lawn back into focus.

Since Mrs. Esperanza's stroke, no one tended the yard. Every morning at
nine, Mr. Esperanza would leave when the nurse arrived, and seldom
returned before nightfall. The nurse fed and bathed the old lady, and
would occasionally wheel her outside onto the rotting yard. Then the
nurse would return to the living room to watch soap operas and eat Mrs.
Esperanza's yogurt. Mr. Esperanza could only afford to keep the nurse
half a day, so by one o'clock in the afternoon, she was gone. Most
times, just before leaving, the nurse would leave Mrs. Esperanza in the
living room to watch television until her husband arrived. But
depending on what the nurse could decipher of the unintelligible groans
emitting from her misshapen mouth, she would sometimes place Mrs.
Esperanza in front of her bedroom window. Here she could pay agonizing
vigil to the rancid mass she had become, mirrored in the decomposing
terrain that was once her garden.

Belinda swallowed hard and stepped into the Esperanza's soggy
enclosure. Her heart was pounding hard, as hard as the rain would soon
begin to pummel, and she began to cross the yard she hated. She passed
the old lady's window, its curtains drawn. She saw the shed, and worked
quickly to wipe out the memory it evoked. The entrance to the ditch was
just behind it, and after another stiff swallow, she made it through
its flimsy chain linked gates.

The ditch was full with rainwater, running strong and with a purpose.
The water was centimeters from touching the top. Only a year before, an
eight-foot tall cinder block wall was erected along the waterway to
keep kids from entering along the main street (it also kept the ditch
from public view). It was dangerous in good weather, with only one
five-foot wide footpath to walk along, but today the slippery walkway
was truly formidable.

Belinda walked hurriedly at first, trying not to look at the river
pulsing beside her. Anger soon took over her gait as she dragged
herself thinking of yet another miserable day's happenings: her ruined
dress, Miss B's card, stupid Mario, smelly Sofia and her doll. The sky
cracked again, and it wouldn't be long before the clank of raindrops
would be banging all around Belinda. How her mother would scream at her
if she knew she was walking along that ditch.

"Keep going," Belinda repeated to herself, "keep going." Her skin was
moist with perspiration now. Keeping her pace, she stared at the water,
thinking about how this year she'd learn to swim when something made
Belinda stop abruptly. Her heart began to pound menacingly as all her
thoughts were silenced by the light drumming of running feet just a
distance behind her. She recognized their wicked provenance. "Oh my
God," she whispered imploringly,

It was the first time she'd ever said those words, and the horror
surged again.

Belinda took slow steps; too paralyzed to move any quicker, and too
horrified to look back. "Please, not him." Her mouth quivered, and her
eyes flooded. Like suction cups dislodging, Belinda's feet finally
unglued themselves off the walkway. She was dashing madly. Her only
thought now was of running. She ran so fast, that her head fell back,
giving her a full view of the low hanging clouds, lustrous now, like
miles of black and gray water balloons, ready to burst recklessly onto
the rooftops.

The end of the walkway, the closest exit, was still yards away, but she
continued the treacherous run. Behind her, the strident sound of the
Devil sprinting was crushing. His breath was soon fingering the nape of
her neck, his gravelly gurgle-thick and vile, soon washing down her
backbone, chilling her all over again. He threw his raspy limbs around
her chest, and just as she called to heaven one more time, her foot
caught a rock, dragging the beast on her back down with her.

"Oh God&;#8230;" she said, almost asking as their bodies thrashed to
the ground.

The thud shook the earth, and Belinda landed face up, legs together,
her arms spread on either side. As she clutched the big rock that
tripped them both, she opened her eyes and digested the reality of
Mario's face hovering a breath above her, his feet dangling over the
ditch.

"You stupid bitch!" he berated, as Belinda felt her scrapes bleed
warmly. He was soon straddling her, screaming, "You see what you did to
me you cow ass!" He was hurt, his arm scratched up, but Belinda only
saw his face, looking sweaty-the way it looked in the Esperanza's back
yard by the shed.

"Get off me!" she cried sternly, but he sat firm on her waist, holding
her chest down. All the while the rain threatened to fall without mercy
atop both children as the ditch seemingly picked up momentum from
nowhere, spitting water onto the footpath.

Belinda pleaded to Mario that she was hurt, that the rocks were burying
into her back, but he only sat heavier on her, staring into her eyes,
her angry eyes that would never forget his face. She held tight to the
big rock as he started grinding her. He was smiling-discharging that
asthmatic cackle; the viscous, malicious cackle Belinda had grown to
know all too well.

She wanted to scream-loud like she should have by the shed, loud enough
that Miss B could hear her. Her chubby hand held tight to the big rock
as Mario continued grinding her, silhouetted by the blackened clouds.
It was happening again, only this time it was worse, and she let the
memory of that day saturate her the way the nightmares did in the
night-

The old lady drooling and moaning in her wheelchair, watching Jesse
spread Belinda's legs-

Mario cackling

His fingers feel like thorny sticks.

She likes it Jesse, just like the girls like it in the dirty magazines
I bury in my backyard-

And the old lady howling from the distended hole in her face, collapsed
on one side, glistening with spit,

not helping her.

Help me, God.

Maybe you should stop Mario, she's watching.

Don't you know that when a boy fucks a girl he pees honey&;#8230;he
pees honey&;#8230;he pees honey&;#8230;

The memory pulled out her insides while he reached under her dress,
yanking her panties down to her knees. "Please-" she pleaded, looking
away to the water as her anger raged, opening its eyes and raising its
claws, howling from that secret cavernous space where her degradation
held court. Belinda firmly clutched the rock that tripped them. She
watched it lift off the ground, and in an instant, felt the crisp smash
of splitting flesh as the rock torpedoed firmly into Mario's
face.

His scream was shrill, even in the roar of the coming storm. Belinda
watched him arch his back in torture, like a savage exorcised of a
demon, then finally fall back off of her, holding his face. His cries
were primordial, of another place. Clumsily, she stood up-watching the
blood gushing onto his t-shirt, brownish red specks polka dotting a
white canvas. His screams continued, now choppy and breathless. Both
children were closer to the edge of the ditch now. She felt the ground
strong under her feet, and as the skies flashed, Mario ascended with
its thunder.

Recklessly, he plummeted into Belinda, who grabbed his bloody shirt
with both hands, and began spinning the boy round and round along the
narrow walkway. Her panties, cumbersome around her knees, threatened to
trip both children in the struggle. "You stupid jerk!" Belinda rumbled,
her fury seething fiercer now. Realizing her rage, he tried to steal
away. But over and over again, she punched him with her open fist where
the rock had cracked his face open. In agony, he shielded himself with
both hands, but she was unremitting and continued spinning the boy.
"Stop, please!" he screamed, mortified. And as the tears poured
furiously from her eyes, Belinda twirled him one last violent time-with
indifference, and with a purpose-spun him hard into the thirsty maw of
the remorseless ditch.

He floated off quietly, silenced by the roar of the bursting waterway,
only once raising his arms above the giant wave. Peacefully, she
watched Mario float away, and finally disappear.

Just then, a rumble forced her vision to the heavens. Her eyes affixed
themselves to the abysmal sky as a hole in the soaked black cotton of
clouds opened wide to release a single stream of water. Not rainfall,
but a colossal faucet crashed over her like a transparent train wreck.
And just as she began to drown, the thick stream ceased, and a light
precipitation began. Completely awash, Belinda reached down to pull up
her panties, grabbed her backpack, and walked hurriedly out of the
ditch toward her house, which wasn't far now.

Belinda walked at a normal pace, unusually soaked for such a light
drizzle, her mind cluttered with myriad thoughts. She thought of
Mario's mother, how sweet her fat face looked on her realtor card. She
wondered how she could have made such a mean child. Then her mind
returned to that sunny day, just a week before, in the Esperanza's back
yard, when Mario and Jesse chased her down-Mario and Jesse who ripped
through her panties to see her privates, who ripped through her spirit
as Mrs. Esperanza watched helplessly from her window, moaning like an
ancient relic, trapped in her stroke-and Belinda saw Mario's ugly face,
evil and eager that day-how it looked the same in the bloated ditch
just minutes ago. All of this she processed with a striking
indifference that would later chill her to the core.

IV:

"Hey," yelled the woman, tugging at the realtor's arm.

The realtor felt herself being edited back into reality, crudely, like
a grainy student film.

"Oh my God," laughed the woman, "you tuned me out exactly like my
husband does every time I&;#8230;"

"You grew up here?" the realtor cut her off.

"Hello? I was telling you how I went to Ramona Elementary-right down
the street, until I moved away in the sixth grade."

"Oh, right," she returned, not attempting to cover up any awkwardness;
with this woman it just didn't seem to matter. "You'll have to excuse
me, it's this heat. I seem to drift in and out of consciousness."

"Yeah, and that black suit," commented the woman. "You must be so
hot."

The two ladies walked toward the house. "Well anyway," the woman
buzzed, "there was this kid in my class&;#8230;let me see," she
searched her memory, "yeah, this kid, like drowned right in that ditch.
Oh my God we were so sad."

Inside the house, the woman continued recounting how there had been a
homicide investigation into the drowning, given some unusual wounds the
boy had, but that his killer was never found. Solemn, the realtor
commented that she'd heard something about that story.

"You know, I almost feel just like writing you a check for the place
now, but I don't think my husband would be thinking that's too cute,"
she giggled. "At any rate, let me take your card, and we'll definitely
be in touch like tomorrow, or Monday."

"Yes, that sounds great. I'm sorry, I never asked you your name,"
inquired the realtor, thumbing through her cards.

"It's Sofia," responded the woman.

"Sofia," the realtor repeated, smiling as she handed the woman a
card.

"Well, I've really got to get going now," the woman sighed, "My
husband chartered a private yacht for us to have a romantic sunset
dinner tonight. He's making it up to me for having to work on our
honeymoon! Isn't he sweet?"

The realtor raised her eyebrows, taking in the woman's familiar scent,
"That is sweet."

The woman looked at the name on the card, and an awkward moment, fueled
by two silences-one of wonder, and the other of hope, filled the
room.

"Yes-he's very sweet," said the woman, overcome by a sudden wealth of
happiness. "Well it was very nice meeting you."

The two shook hands.

"Same here Sofia, we'll be in touch. Have a great day."

"Yeah, you too," the woman continued, swishing out of the house,
putting on her sunglasses. "And listen," she said, looking at the card
to remember the realtor's name, "get yourself out of that black suit
Belinda! It's Valentines Day!" she said, laughing. And she left.

The realtor returned to her table and looked out the window. She stared
at a crest of dark clouds forming far off in the distance. The cold was
returning. She noticed how quickly the clouds were crushing the beaming
sun. Just a few more hours left, she thought. She sat down, her knees
screeching like rusted hinges, and crackling like the pop rocks she
used to pour into her cans of Grape Shasta in the sixth grade.

She flashed back to those half-hearted suicide attempts in those
sickening schoolyard bathrooms, how she never found the courage to
drink the concoction rumored to make the stomach explode; how pathetic
she felt watching the purple fizz dribble all over the toilet seats.
Then all the memories crept in again, a poisonous retrospection
filtering through her, through every inch of her, feeding on her the
way a wintry frost devours eager saplings; insatiable in its hunger and
with inevitable triumph.

She reached into her purse, struck by how cold she was, and pulled out
the piece of scratch paper she'd hid earlier. As the last thought
slithered off, like it always did, she uncapped her black marker and
continued doodling her hearts. Belinda did this until her work was
done.