The ground by the highway is cold. Back pressed against the ice-packed dirt, parallel to the blacktop, I slightly shiver, and continue staring aimlessly up at the night sky. All I see are stars.

Ada get off the ground. You’re going to catch a cold.

I’m absolutely fine, Mother, perfectly alright here on the permafrost. It’s comfortable, the refreshing type of cool.

Holding my hand up, I trace the lights above, drawing Big Dipper freehand—it’s the only one I can recognize. Closing my eyes, I let my hands continue mindlessly. All I see is black.

My vision starts to meld into memory. I see your fingers going for the old wooden table-top radio on the kitchen counter. When the knob turns, the radio screeches the raspy scratching sound of “no signal” as you quickly fumble to a channel. Eventually, the room fills with “Hotel California.” I remember thinking that the stereo distorted the song, giving it the vintage lilt of those outdated grade-school documentaries, where the people in it have hair that’s not quite in style, and clothes that aren’t quite the fashion, and you’re oh so tempted to just fall asleep right there and then in the front row of the classroom.

Ada, I’m telling you. Get up off the ground before you cause trouble.

Shush, Mommy. I’m listening to music.

A car chases the wind down the highway next to me, kidnapping me from the dream. I feel the glare of the headlights as they bathe me in momentary warmth. I blanch. Unwelcome little intrusion.

The moon peeks out of the black clouds, seemingly waving hello at me. I wave back, and then giggle. 

Look Mommy, they were right. The moon does look like cheese after all.

Ada, don’t be a fool. The moon is made of rock, not dairy.

Sourpuss. You may not see it, but I do. The small craters and their Swiss-cheesy-ness, and how the glare of all the city lights and factory smoke illuminate a disturbingly yellow halo around it. Yes, I decide, quite like cheese. Mother just has no imagination.

The sky grumbles a little before it opens its big mouth, and small drops of drool begin to dip onto my face. I stick my tongue out to catch the rain.

That’s highly unsanitary.

I’m going to ignore you Mother if you keep being mean.

A truck passes by this time, and the driver tosses a Shoprite bag of trash out the window. It smacks me in the face. I flick it off my head.

What did I tell you, Ada? Get. Up. Off. The. Ground. Next thing you know they’ll be throwing smoking cigarettes out the window and burn your face.

My hands slide towards the bag, rifling inside for something fun to play with.

What do you think you’re doing?

Soda can… Banana peel… Candy wrapper… Cigarette? Maybe I should take it out and smoke the remains.

Ada. What the hell do you think you’re doing?!  Let go of that man’s trash this instant. Have you gone insane?

Possibly.

My fingers encounter something stiff. It’s a… small stick? I pull it out of the plastic, bringing it closer to my face for examination.

The rain starts to fall harder and faster, like the tears of a colicky infant. The water makes the trash smell. 

Put that down! You don’t know what was in that man’s mouth!

Cherry stem. I roll it between my index and thumb, letting it twist and turn back and forth like a writhing child. I remember what they say about cherry stems; if you can tie a bow with your tongue, makes you a good kisser. 

On a whim, I stick it in my mouth. Wonder if I’m any good.

Oh my god. Out! I want it out of your mouth, you stupid child.

Mother, I’m practicing. How else are you going to get grandchildren?

He could be diseased! And you’re putting his spit into your mouth?

Oh, stop talking. You’re not even real anyway.

Of course I’m real. I’m right here.

I see her prod my chest. No sensation felt.

You reek, Ada.
Thank you, mother. Maybe the rain can wash me clean then.

I begin to roll, right over left over right over light. The first hump onto the pavement was the hardest, and the pebbled blacktop pushed kernels into my skin.

You’ve gone off the deep-end, burrito-rolling your way across a highway. I can’t leave you alone for a minute.

It’s fun. You should try it sometime.

Maybe when I’m dead and in hell.

I snort. Mother, that’s already been arranged.

The rain spatters harder onto my eyelids, the water stinging my eyes, forcing them shut. I continue rolling.

Would you stop that? You look like a roly-poly. I did not give birth to a bug, I gave birth to a human. Now act like one.

The blacktop will scrub me, and the rain will rinse me. And then I’ll be all clean, Mommy. Isn’t that what you want?

Silence.

Mommy, where’d you go? Don’t leave me all alone. I can’t handle it…

Ada get up!

Mother, you’re back!

Ada, get up right now! Get—

All I hear next is the skid of tires.

Mommy, I’m coming.