Fall 2007, Volume 31, Number 2

The year of my first kiss, ninety-nine people were murdered in Little Rock. Danger hovered over our lives like a cloud, and violence was in the air we breathed. I was playing shortstop in a 14-and-under coed fall softball league, and occasionally a spray of distant gunshots mingled with the infield chatter. We pounded our gloves and spat in the dirt and pulled our caps low to shield our eyes from the glare of the lights. Sometimes on the way home I’d see the big sedans gliding like sharks down city streets, their headlights sweeping across yards and alleys, flushing out small animals with glittering eyes. Weekends I ran with my brother Mac and his friends. After dark we’d hike to the quarry behind my house, where we’d sit around getting high and telling lies and tossing empty bottles down into the bauxite pits. Once we walked all the way out to the overpass and Mac dropped a rock onto a car passing below, just for the hell of it. The rock crashed through the windshield with a sick crunch, and the car skidded and fishtailed into the median. It was a good year to be bad; life seemed brutal and sexy and short, and we rushed to drink it down. When I got a chance to sneak under the bleachers with a big-hipped brunette eating a purple snow cone, life exploded into something else entirely.
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Fall 2007, Volume 31, Number 2

Her dresser top reminds me of a beautiful shopping mall. Make-up that will work magic, arranged in neat rows according to color.

“This will make the boys notice your eyes,” my older sister says.

The blusher and eye shadow with sparkles are carefully painted on my face, then washed off before Mom or Dad gets home. Make-up with names like Deep Sea Blue Coral and Hint of Spice. Nicole holds up the picture of a model, ripped out from her favorite magazine.

“This will define your cheekbones.”

Nicole gives me a makeover every Saturday in front of her dresser mirror. She calls it Nicole’s School of Beauty, and tells me I am her only customer.
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