I used to have this trick. Paper imploded to origami under my gaze. There was always a wedding party two rooms over where I could finish strangers' crème brûlées. A volcano smoked ominously, only to erupt confetti. I detached my face and underneath were all sorts of cavities and honeycombs colonized by tiny foxes. Some of the foxes were sleeping, while others were swallowing their tails or constructing tinier foxes out of mud and flower petals. I copied Shel Silverstein poems onto my shins. When Sarah Reyes saw and read them out loud to the whole bus, I wanted my legs to fall off. It was sixth grade. The wind smelled like new books, then it smelled like rubbing alcohol, then like steakhouses that failed health inspections. Big slivers of my skin ended up devoured by ladybugs. I hated everything having to do with magic kingdoms.On a backdrop of pink onion domes and smiling teacups, I threw myself a ballet rife with sick led feet and torn-out eyelashes. Pearly. Saturnine. Salivating with sheer loss. I detached my face and my blood leapt up, a forest fire. The foxes died with their little forelegs hugging their ribs, and every night after has been loud with ladybugs scraping meat.