There were other stories and other names. Second Base Stace, who had breasts in the fourth grade and let some of the boys feel them.
Vincent, who took acid and tried to flush a sofa down the toilet.
Sheila, who allegedly masturbated with a hot dog and had to go to the emergency room.
The list went on and on. By the end, all I could think was what these people must feel like when they go to their class reunions.
I wonder if they’re embarrassed, and I wonder if that’s a small price to pay for being a legend.
After we sobered up a bit with coffee and Mini Thins, Patrick drove me home.
The mix tape I made for him hit a bunch of winter songs. And Patrick turned to me.
“Thanks, Charlie.” “Sure.” “No. I mean in the cafeteria.” “Sure.”
After that, it was quiet. He drove me home and pulled up in the driveway.
We hugged good night, and when I was just about to let go, he held me a little tighter.
And he moved his face to mine. And he kissed me. A real kiss.
Then, he pulled away real slow. “I’m sorry.” “No. That’s okay.”
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