Sweating in my corduroy dress, squirming on the stool, I’m five years old. Behind the black drape is my kindergarten classroom, a row of hushed students waiting their turn.
“Didja bring a comb?” the photographer asks me. I shake my head. I wanted to wear a t-shirt today.
“Let me fix this.” He scrapes his fingers over my part. The sweaty meat of his hand plasters over my hair. His fingers arrange my bangs and twist a few curls around my ears.
I look up at him. Are we done? His zipper is only a few inches from my chin. Then he bends down conspiratorially, and puts his nose too close to mine.
“I’m going to show you how to smile pretty. Okay? Can you do that for me?”
I nod. I am ready for this to be over.
His fingers slip inside my mouth so lightly that I barely taste them. He sighs. His index finger traces my teeth. He rearranges the corners of my lips, brushes his thumbs over my cheeks.
“Now say Peaches,” he tells me as he stands beside the camera.
Peaches.
Click.
I still can’t eat them, fresh or canned.