Her paleness competed with porcelain and sometimes I wondered if I could see her blue veins working. She had feathered her blonde hair because Farrah was still a thing. (Had she dyed it and worn a straight bang, she would've been a blue eyed Karen O 30 years before Karen O.) Once she wore a pair of pants that zipped from her belly button all the way around to the end of her spine. She was an outcast from the preppy world we were all trying to be in and she didn't care. I liked that about her, but I wasn't sure either: I didn't know enough of myself to know. And I wish I had. She was a rock and roll girl through and through.
One night we took the train to Chicago and walked around laughing and being us. It was a late autumn night, just warm enough to let you forget how vulnerable you are to the elements; just cool enough to remind you that you are alive. We got pictures in a photo booth at Northwestern Station. I still have the picture somewhere: Two pale teenagers looking wide-eyed at the camera, a pimple at the corner of my mouth. When I see it, the thoughts I had then are still sharp: Does she like me? Does she see my blemish? Do I like her? Is this a thing? How far will this go? In the car outside her house, she told me her older sister was dating a black guy. "She likes black dick," she said. I didn't know what to say back. Then we kissed and I thought, "Oh, Jesus, this is a good kiss."
Her tongue was a scalpel that carved my desire out and laid it neatly back in my mouth.
