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watching her clean up digital dirty diapers on a screen not much
bigger than my two thumbnails put together. She had decided
upon the day’s proceedings (as usual) and I had acquiesced to
her choice (as usual). Every once in a while though, I would sigh
and let my head flop around hoping to prod her into acknowledg-
ing that I was bored, but she just continued pushing buttons on
her Nano Pet, unconcerned. I hated that she had the power to
make me feel upset without her even trying—although some-
times she did try. So when my dad picked me up in the evening I
stomped the whole way from Tara’s building to his truck, hop-
ing he would notice and ask me what was wrong. He didn’t ask,
but once we were seated in the cab of the truck he said, “I have
something for you.” He popped the glove box open and pulled
out a pink Nano Pet in unopened packaging. I couldn’t wait to
open the package and I couldn’t stop smiling. My petulant jeal-
ousy toward Tara was placated by my new toy.
I would remember that time later when I accidentally
squeezed Tara’s hamster to death. About a year after both our
Nano Pets had lost the charm of new trinkets and been aban-
doned to go hungry and yet somehow still managed to poop
themselves to death, Tara’s mom, my skinny Aunt Capri who
always smelled like cigarette smoke, got Tara three hamsters. It’s
likely they were related as they had come from the girl living in
the apartment upstairs. She was lanky and blonde and her par-
ents let her keep 80 hamsters. They lived in a network of plastic
translucent tubes and cages running through the apartment.
(In my mind there were 80 hamsters, but that number may be
subject to the exaggeration of my young imagination.) The three
hamsters fought like any human siblings would, with the two
oldest ganging up on the younger, honey-colored runt. I loved
holding the furry golden ball in my hand and feeling its little feet
scrabble over my palm.
One afternoon, Tara and I sat on her living room couch tak-
ing turns holding her youngest and most beloved hamster.
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