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Greta Igl
Marked
Our tasseled caps streaked through the cloudless sky; that night,
our preppy clothes trailed across a beach silvered by an engraved
moon. We dyed our hair pink and wriggled into jeans as snug as snake
skin. We drank tequila and let boys run rough hands over our
straining bodies.
Truth was, we didn’t like pink hair and our tight clothes chafed.
The heat of summer embossed denim weave and seam weals on our tender
skin. But our suffering was our choice, not Cindy’s or Suzy’s or
Melissa’s. We jerked our chins at them and slept with their
boyfriends.
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