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1996: thirteen-year-old Ruthy standing there outside after track practice, five o’clock, alone, book bag graffitied by Sharpies, her red hair knotted and wrapped into a bun.
There in her arms, I realized, to my surprise, that I felt shy. In front of my own sister. My mother.
Maybe people don’t really care. Most adults already have their own ideas about the type of girl Ruthy is, that is because everybody’s always running their mouths about her.
