On weekends we drove to our town’s hidden creases: the parking lot behind the middle school to smoke pot, a house party for a college we didn’t attend.
No one talks about what Nana keeps in the basement.
When the yellow car hit us, it hit us like a kiss and pulled back slowly.
You’re talking too much. Girls always talk too much. It’s why I never win the game.
Even then she was never a runner, so now here she is, running up this hill in an ugly raincoat toward a line of yipping boys who are just now cresting the peak
We waded to the lake in skirts and filled our best bone china—the water like a covenant, the taste like sugared silver.
There were also retired old farmers and their white-haired wives watching, chewing hot dogs and looking at me like I was something grave, offensive to all the hard work they’d known growing up. However, I felt like something meaningless, insubstantial.
That paperweight breaks my heart, because I identify with it—I feel like a blue flower immobilized in heavy glass.
I had broken into houses and cars, but that was victimless stuff, or at least victimless in the sense that the “victim” was far away when it happened. No one was traumatized. Mugging was different.
It was the deepest secret I had to give, that love scared me when everyone else our age seemed to find such hope in it.