The best part is first thing, that hot blur of hands. There are no boys, just girls, and before class we share things: combs, lotion, lip-balm. We watch each other’s mouths and smear greasy fingers under desks. We are eleven, and we are on our way.
…I cleaned myself and put lipstick on my mouth, because you were older and because SoHo sounded glamorous. It wasn’t a woman’s lipstick, it wasn’t plum or wine, it didn’t say, fuck off. It was a girl’s lipstick, cerise or magenta or something like that, but it was the only one I had, besides a tinted Burt’s Bees chapstick. It had come free with the rosewater toner the woman in Sephora sold me to ward off wrinkles, when she said that twenty-five was actually quite old to start prevention. I painted my lips and shook down all that hair I used to have, checking myself in the over-the-door Ikea mirror I’d brought down from Boston…Read More