CONTORTIONS by Simon A. Smith
Madison and her friends have played a game called Sedarahc since adolescence. It was Madi, my daughter, who invented it. Ingenious kids. Sedarahc is “charades” spelled backward, a concept both beautifully sensible and absurd. A generation of contradictions.
The idea is that the actor, instead of striving to help everyone deduce their impersonation, rather tries everything they can to trip them up. For example, if the objective is to convey a “pigsty,” the performer wanders around tidying up, vacuuming dust, or straightening books. It all started because Madi realized that she and her classmates often walked around hiding their genuine identities. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a fun way to communicate real emotions as a vehicle to alleviate the anxiety attached to the stigmas they concealed? The original rules did not reflect their true essence. This was a more authentic representation of who they were. It was the reverse kind of exposure and confession that didn’t fit them anymore.
In the beginning, I thought the amusement would last a single sleepover, but ten years on, the young ladies still engaged in the activity. Last weekend, while each was home from their various universities, I watched the festivities play out in our basement.
Standing in the doorway, I observed Madi’s portrayal. First, she stretched out on the sofa. Next, she primly lifted and opened a book. She placed a pair of glasses on her nose, drew a deep breath, and melted into the cushions.
“Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder!” Colleen shouted. They’d been inseparable for over a decade and knew each other like their own reflections.
“Yes!” Madi squealed, hopping up and changing places with Colleen. If it were an Olympic sport, they’d be gold medalists.
Colleen had always been a delicate little girl but now had grown, or perhaps shrunk, into a woman so slight she could hardly walk upright on such twiggy legs. From neck to feet, she resembled a wishbone.
When it was her turn, Colleen walked to the middle of the room and stood perfectly still. For a while, I wasn’t sure if she had started performing, but then I noticed that Madi and Abigail were whispering on the side. They didn’t announce anything yet, but they were devising answers. Colleen slipped a finger down the front of her jeans, tugging them loose from her concave waistline and peering down into them as though she might find something she’d lost.
“Body Dysmorphic Disorder,” Abigail said. She raised her hands and flapped them back down against her thighs. Abby is what I used to call fat but don’t have a name for anymore, her body so hefty and white that when she wrapped her arms around Colleen it looked like a polar bear hugging a kitten. Madison joined them, and they embraced for a long time. Abby stroked Colleen’s hair while Madi craned to nuzzle their ears. A low cooing sound rose from their enmeshment. I thought maybe they were still playing the game, but I didn’t dare guess
About the Author:
Simon A. Smith is a Chicago teacher and writer. His stories have appeared in many journals and media outlets, including Hobart, Lit Magazine, Whiskey Island, Chicago Public Radio, and NewCity. He is the author of two novels, Son of Soothsayer and Wellton County Hunters. He lives in Rogers Park with his wife and son. You can find more of his work at his website: simonasmith.com
