Everything I didn’t know was a throatful of something hot and bothered: the hair crawling up my calves; the shock that flew through me when Alex drew a picture of sex; the wreckage of birds I became when he felt me up in the hallway. I didn’t know what to call that feeling, only that I was on the edge of something as impressive and glorious as catastrophe, counting my life mostly as a series of small, terrible stories: elsewhere, children are being beaten in factories; beaten if they don’t speak Japanese; stripped from their bones if they’re born in the wrong country. That year, I fumbled
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