“All I know is what I know from being 15, which is that we were crafty and secretive and determined to do whatever came into our heads regardless of or maybe even because it might get us killed or arrested or maimed or burned or addicted or pregnant or run over or shot or dog-bitten or drowned or drunk in the road or kicked out of school, because how else could we know that we were truly alive . . .?
. . . we became as ingenious as thieves and as thick as dogs, creeping about the darkened neighborhood overturning trash cans and copulating in parked vans, accomplishing with great effort whatever was sufficiently idiotic to prove that we were real.”
You and me both, Cary, you and me both. Of course, sufficiently idiotic for a girl . . . wasn’t what I’d call a big reach. Okay, maybe the high-level skills at self-deception, yes. But we are all hellbent, in our own way, at fifteen.
One must find if anyone cares.
