Issue 23
Fall 2020
Physical
Kelly Krumrie
Every year at St. Agatha’s there is a physical. Each homeroom takes turns lining up down the hall, and a few sisters and the nurse hand out clipboards to the girls. Tessa, Caroline, Ana, Kat, Lucy, Thea, Maria, and Jo line up with the others. They are supposed to write down their estimated heights and weights, and at the end of the line is a scale and a measuring tape fastened to the wall, so their guessing is either to start a conversation about perceptions of their bodies or to keep them busy while they wait in line. They chat and lean on the lockers. Tessa yawns. It’s a waste of time. The sisters look bored. Tessa clicks her pen.
Caroline dutifully fills her form out, turning it over to continue writing on the page’s blank back. She tucks her hair behind her ear and puts her pen in her mouth, thinking.
Ana and Kat both sit on the floor against the lockers letting their long legs stick out into the hall. Kat pulls a book from beneath her clipboard and starts reading. Ana stares at the girls standing on the other side of the hall. They look at the floor or at each other, down the hall, at the ceiling, sucking in their stomachs, tightening their lips. Ana narrows her eyes. She has written 0 or n/a for each of the form’s questions.
Lucy can’t read the form, so she holds it right up to her glasses. One of the sisters walks by and shushes them though no one is speaking. Lucy blinks at the paper until her eyes well up.
The form asks questions about eating habits and physical activity. Thea sometimes walks with her grandmother. She recently taught Ana to crochet. The questions trouble her. What has she eaten today? Fruit? She records this in careful letters.
Maria’s hair is wet and it drips on the paper. She was late getting there and slid in the line. Her gym bags spill into the hall until she nudges them back with her foot. She answers a few questions and for others puts question marks and exclamation points, doodles a little flower in the corner. She rests her head on the lockers and closes her eyes.
As the nurse comes by, they each bend over, hips against the lockers, and pull their white blouses out from the skirt band. The blouses fall over their heads. The nurse runs her gloved hand up each of their spines.
About the Author
Kelly Krumrie’s writing appears in DIAGRAM, Tarpaulin Sky Magazine, Entropy, La Vague, and elsewhere. She is currently a PhD candidate in Creative Writing / Literature at the University of Denver where she serves as the Prose Editor for Denver Quarterly.