Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl: A Memoir

by Carrie Brownstein

Together we attended summer camp: me, so I could shoot bows and arrows, sing Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle” in a round, and make lanyards; her, so she could meet boys from other schools and gargle with someone else’s tongue. Eventually, I decided that holding hands with a guy in a turtleneck and shorts in the middle of the woods and dancing to Depeche Mode in the mess hall was more fun than canoeing or collecting clams on the beach, though it was always in the back of my mind that I hadn’t showered or been able to go to the bathroom for over five days. After camp, on a springtime backyard tent sleepover, Tammy arranged for a group of boys to sneak in. She instructed each of us, paired us up, and told us how to use our tongues when we kissed, which as a preteen is an unrelenting technique that requires one’s mouth to be open longer and wider than during a dental exam. Tammy zipped herself into a sleeping bag with a boy. The rest of us were sitting upright, not sure what to do horizontally and thus not wanting to commit to one person. We traded kisses in a humid tent that smelled of Drakkar Noir, cigarettes, and mint liqueur. Almost immediately I cut the lips of a kid named Ricky with my braces. I retired for the night; I felt inept at this carefree, outdoorsy, group sexiness, but I made an eager, loyal follower. I liked being part of a gang.