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multiply like jackrabbits. My aura
would sparkle like an Oscar-
night Yves St. Laurent. And anyway,
Aunt Cora is probably too busy
basking in her own satisfaction
to worry too much about mine.
Cherie? She thinks I do, of course
she does. She’s got a grubby mind.
Grandfather? No way. If he thought
such a thing, for even one
minute, he’d cure me, Baptist-style.
The only other person who might
care is Bryce. Oh God, I hope
he doesn’t think I do. Hope …
Wait one sec. Maybe I hope he does.
HOPE HE DOES
Because, so sayeth
Mr. Vega, the big M
is normal. I want Bryce
to think I’m normal,
though I suspect he
might guess otherwise.
(Guess otherwise and like me
anyway? What’s that about?)
Hope he does because
that would mean Bryce
is putting me and sex
in the same thought,
something I’m pretty
sure no one else has.
