Afternoons she’d spent swatting cigarette ash off books, and at night she’d gone to parties, where her Stanford Domme shtick gave her cred for a checkered past she didn’t have: what was really checkered was her future. Her tattoo sleeves had vined out and joined between her shoulder blades, her hair went whitely afloat with bleaching, her voice turned permanently hoarse. Two years of bars and shows, dancing and reading. A bright catwalk of youth.
