Stacey was not a big girl, her body took up more space than necessary, giving the impression that it was large. She rocked to the left and then to the right when taking a step, for example, and held her arms akimbo so that her elbows rounded out her form and swished past those nearby like the big round brushes inside a drive-thru car wash. Her backside jiggled clumsily behind her, mimicking the hanging rubber curtain strips providing a final dry-wiping.
When she slept she seemed much smaller. Part of this was due to the size of the lumpy futon she slept on, on the floor, Japanese-style. The futon had belonged first to an older male cousin, then her aunt was left with it after her son moved out, and finally it was part of the three truckloads of furniture, appliances, photographs, sewing fabrics, and other assorted items that her father had hauled into their attic after his sister, Stacey's aunt, passed away from congestive heart failure last year.