There was the girl who got pregnant and dropped out, and there was the girl who got pregnant and kept coming to classes as she got bigger and bigger. The guy who loved Nirvana and Faith No More and Slayer and Ice Cube and Snoop Dogg all equally, which more or less everyone soon would, but he was the first, or the first you knew anyway, a range of taste that surprised and confused you but also seemed exciting. There was the guy who hand-delivered to a teacher who wasn’t one of his own a box that he’d pooped in while wearing a UPS outfit that he’d bought at Goodwill. There was the hot girl, of course, and there was the girl who you thought looked a little like the hot girl, was even hotter, in fact, a noticing and recognition of which for some reason you believed yourself to be the only capable. You’ll think about him at the end of the summer, when Jerry Garcia dies. The guy who, when you asked him on the last day of school if he had any plans for the summer, said he didn’t really know for sure but he’d probably follow the Grateful Dead around some.
The guy who, rumor had it, burned his arms with bleach, trying to clean up evidence of drug use.
The girl who got her tongue pierced but then took out the piercing later that same night before her parents could see it, then got it pierced again a few weeks later, and took that out, and then got it re-pierced, you think, you can’t remember how many ultimate piercing-removal-repiercing cycles she ended up going through. There was the guy who held a knife over a flame and then cut-slash-burned his girlfriend’s name into his bicep.
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