not that kind of girl: a young woman tells you what she's...

NotThatKindofGirlisaworkofnonfiction.Somenamesandidentifying

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Formyfamily,ofcourse.

ForNora.

AndforJack,whoisjustasshesaidhe

wouldbe.

Deepinhersoul,however,shewaswaitingforsomethingto

happen.Likeasailorindistress,shewouldgazeoutoverthesolitudeofherlifewithdesperateeyes,seekingsomewhitesailinthemistsofthefar-offhorizon.Shedidnotknowwhatthischanceeventwouldbe,whatwindwoulddriveittoher,whatshoreitwouldcarryherto,

whetheritwasalongboatora

three-deckedvessel,loadedwithanguishorfilledwith

happinessuptotheportholes.Buteachmorning,whensheawoke,shehopeditwould

arrivethatday.…—GUSTAVEFLAUBERT,MadameBovary

Howquicklyyoutransformtheenergylifethrowsyouinto

foldedbowsofart.—MYFATHER,admonishingme

CoverTitlePageCopyrightDedicationEpigraphIntroduction

SectionILove&SexTakeMyVirginity(No,Really,TakeIt)PlatonicBedSharing:AGreatIdea(forPeopleWhoHateThemselves)18UnlikelyThingsI’veSaidFlirtatiouslyIgor:Or,MyInternetBoyfriendDiedandSoCanYours

SharingConcerns:MyWorstEmailEver,withFootnotesGirls&JerksBarryFallinginLove

SectionIIBody“Diet”IsaFour-LetterWord:HowtoRemain10Lbs.OverweightEatingOnlyHealthFood

SexScenes,NudeScenes,andPubliclySharingYourBody15ThingsI’veLearnedfromMyMotherWhat’sinMyBagWhoMovedMyUterus?

SectionIIIFriendshipGirlCrush:ThatTimeIWasAlmostaLesbian,ThenVomited

TheBestPart13ThingsI’veLearnedAreNotOkaytoSaytoFriendsGrace10ReasonsI<3NY

SectionIVWorkThisIsSupposedtoBeFun?MakingtheMostofYourEducationLittleLeatherGloves:The

JoyofWastingTime17ThingsILearnedfromMyFatherEmailsIWouldSendIfIWereOneOunceCrazier/Angrier/BraverIDidn’tFuckThem,butTheyYelledatMe

SectionVBigPictureTherapy&Me

IsThisEvenReal?ThoughtsonDeath&DyingMyTop10HealthConcernsHelloMother,HelloFather:GreetingsfromFernwoodCoveCampforGirlsMyRegretsGuidetoRunningAway

AcknowledgmentsAbouttheAuthor

I AM TWENTY years old and Ihate myself. My hair, myface, the curve of mystomach. The way my voicecomes out wavering and my

poemscomeoutmaudlin.Thewaymyparents talk tome ina slightly higher register thantheytalktomysister,asifI’ma government worker that’ssnapped and, if pushed hardenough, might blow up thehostagesI’vegottiedupinmybasement.I cover up this hatredwith

a kind of aggressive self-acceptance. I dye my hair afluorescent shade of yellow,

cutting it into a mullet moreinspired by photos of 1980steen mothers than by anycurrent beauty trend. I dressin neon spandex that hugs inall the wrong places. Mymother and I have a massivefightwhenIchoosetowearabanana-printedbellyshirtandpink leggings to the Vaticanand religious tourists gawkandturnaway.I’m living in a dormitory

thatwas,not too longago,anold-agehomefor low-incometownspeople and I don’t likethinking about where theymight be now.My roommatehas moved to New York toexplore farm-to-fork cookingand lesbianism, so I’m alone,in a ground-floor one-bedroom, a fact I relish untilone night a female rugbyplayerripsmyscreendooroffthehingesandbargesintothe

dorm to attack herphilandering girlfriend. I’vebought a VHS player and apair of knitting needles andspendmostnightsonthesofa,makinghalfascarfforaboyIlike who had a manic breakand dropped out. I’ve madetwoshortfilms,bothofwhichmyfatherdeemed“interestingbutbeside thepoint,”andamso paralyzed as a writer thatI’ve started translating poems

from languages Idon’t speak,some kind of Surrealistexercise meant to inspire mebut also prevent me fromthinkingtheperverse, loopingthoughts that comeunbidden:Iamhideous.Iamgoingtobeliving in amental hospital bythe time I am twenty-nine. Iwillneveramounttoanything.Youwouldn’tknowittosee

meataparty.InacrowdIamrecklesslycheerful,dressedto

theninesinthrift-shopgownsand press-on fingernails,fighting the sleepiness thatcomes from the 350milligrams of medication Itake every night. I dance thehardest, laugh the hardest atmy own jokes, and makecasualreferencetomyvagina,like it’s a car or a chest ofdrawers.Igotmonolastyear,but itneverreallywentaway.Occasionally, one of my

glandsblowsuptothesizeofagolfballandprotrudesfrommynecklikeoneof theboltsthat keep Frankenstein’smonsterintact.Ihavefriends:akindgroup

of girls whose passions(baking, pressing flowers,communityorganizing)donotstirme.Ifeelguiltaboutthis,asensethatmyinabilitytobeat home with them proves,onceandforall, thatIamno

good. I laugh, I agree, I findreasons to go home early. Ihave the nagging sense thatmy true friends are waitingfor me, beyond college,unusual women whoseambitions are as big as theirpast transgressions, whosehair is piled high, dramaticlike topiaries at Versailles,andwho never, ever say “toomuch information”when youmentionasexdreamyouhad

aboutyourfather.Butthat’salsohowIfeltin

high school, sure that mypeople were from elsewhereand going elsewhere and thatthey would recognize mewhen they saw me. Theywould likeme enough that itwouldn’t matter if I likedmyself. They would see thegood in me so that I could,too.

OnSaturdaysmyfriendsandIload into somebody’s oldVolvo and head to a thriftstore, where we buytchotchkes that reek of otherpeople’s livesandclothesthatwe believe will enhance ourown.Weallwanttolooklikecharacters on the sitcoms ofour youth, the teenagers weadmired when we were still

kids. None of the pants everfitme, unless I head into thematernity section, so I buymostly sacklike dresses andCosbysweaters.Some days, my haul is

massive: a peach power suitwith subtle coffee stains,leggings with trompe l’oeilchains running down thesides,apairofbootsspeciallymade for someone with legsofdifferentlengths.Butsome

days the spread is meager.Theusualbountyofpatternedoff-brand Keds and rippednegligees has been snappedup.Ononesuchday,Iwanderover to the book section,where people discard theirguides to better divorce andcrafting how-tos, sometimeseven their scrapbooks andfamilyphotoalbums.I scan the dusty shelf,

which looks like the book

collection of an unhappy andmaybeevenilliteratefamily.Iignore get-rich-quick advice,stop briefly at Miss Piggy’sautobiography, contemplate abook called Sisters: The Giftof Love. But when I reach afaded paperback with edgesso yellowed theyhave almostgone green, I stop.Having ItAll, by Helen Gurley Brown,who graces her own cover,leaning against her tidy desk

in the kind of shoulder-paddedplumsuitIhavetakento wearing ironically, allpearlsandknowingsmile.I spend the sixty-fivecents

required to take the bookhome. In the car I show it tomy friends like it’s adecorative joke, somethingfor my shelf of kitschytrophies and Sears photo-studioshotsofstrangers’kids.This is our hobby,

appropriating meaningfulartifacts and displaying themas evidence of who we willnever be. But I know I’mgoingtodevourthisbook,andwhen I get home I headstraight to bed, shiveringundermypatchworkquilt,anOhio snowstorm swirling inthe parking lot outside mywindow.Thebookisfrom1982,and

on the inside cover is an

inscription, written inballpoint pen: “To Betty!Love,Margaret,yourOptifastfriend.☺”Thismovesme,theideathatthebookwashandedfromonewomantoanotherinsome long-ago weight-losssupport group. I extend hermessage in my mind: Betty,wecando it.Wearedoing it.Let this book take you to thestarsandbeyond.

I race home from

classeveryday foraweek to devourHelen’s teachings.

I’m electrified by the waythat, inHaving It All, GurleyBrown shares her assortedhumiliations and occasionaltriumphs and explains, withIdiot’s Guide precision, howyou too can be blessed with“love, success, sex, money,even if you’re starting withnothing.”

Most of her advice, itshouldbenoted, is absolutelybananas. She encouragesreaders to eat fewer than athousand calories a day(“crashing is okay, so isfasting… Satisfied is out ofthequestion.Youhavetofeelslightly uncomfortable andhungry during your weightloss or it probably isn’thappening”), avoid havingchildren if you possibly can,

and be blow job ready at alltimes (“the more sex youhave, the more you cantolerate”). Helen has littletolerance for freewill in thisdepartment: “Exhaustion,preoccupation with aproblem,menstrual cramps—nothing is a good excuse fornot making love unless youhappen to be so angry withthemaninyourbedyoureyesare darting around their

sockets and your teeth aregrinding.”Some of her advice is a

little more reasonable:“Always leave for the airportfifteen minutes earlier thanyou could. It will save yourvalves wearing out,” or “Ifyou have severe personalproblems then I think you goto a shrink for advice andsupport. I can no moreimaginenotgoingtogetyour

hurting head and heart takencare of than one would goaround the streets with bloodspurting out of yourthroat …” But her frankwisdom loses some of itspower because it’s forced tooccupy the same space asgemssuchas“tome,avoidingmarried men totally whenyou’re single would be likepassing up first aid in aTijuana hospital when you’re

bleedingtodeathbecauseyouprefer an immaculateAmerican hospital someunreachable distance acrosstheborder.”

HavingItAllisdividedintosections, each section ajourney into some usuallysacrosanct aspectof femininelife such as diet, sex, or theintricacies of marriage. Butdespite her dementedtheories, which jibe not even

a little bit with my distinctlyfeminist upbringing, Iappreciate the way Helenshares her own embarrassing,acne-ridden history in anattempttosayLook,happinessandsatisfactioncanhappentoanyone. In the process sherevealsherownuniquepathos(apassage about binge eatingbaklava stands out in mymind), but maybe Iunderestimated her. Maybe

that is not an accident but is,infact,hergift.

WhenIfoundherbook,Ididnot yet understand HelenGurleyBrown’spositioninthecanon, that she had beenwritten about and reacted toby the women who wouldcome to guide me, womenlikeGloriaSteinemandNora

Ephron. I did not know thatshewas the bane of both thewomen’s movement and thesmut-police, or that she wasstill alive and in her lateeighties, still peddling herparticular brand of chipper,oblivious help for thedowntrodden.All Iknewwasthatshepaintedapictureofalife made much richer byhavingoncebeen,asshecallsit, a Mouseburger: unpretty,

unspecial, unformed. Shebelieved that, ultimately,Mouseburgers are thewomenwho will triumph, havinglived to tell the tale of beingoverlooked and underloved.Hers is a self-servingperspective,butone Ineededmore than anything. Maybe,as Helen preached, apowerful,confident,and,yes,even sexy woman could bemade,notborn.Maybe.

There is nothing gutsier tome than a person announcingthat their story is one thatdeservestobetold,especiallyifthatpersonisawoman.Ashard as we have worked andasfaraswehavecome,thereare still so many forcesconspiring to tellwomen thatour concerns are petty, ouropinions aren’t needed, thatwelackthegravitasnecessaryforourstoriestomatter.That

personalwritingbywomen isno more than an exercise invanity and that we shouldappreciate thisnewworld forwomen,sitdown,andshutup.

ButIwanttotellmystoriesand,morethanthat,Ihave toin order to stay sane: storiesabout waking up tomy adultfemale body and beingdisgustedandterrified.Aboutgettingmybutt touchedataninternship, having to prove

myself in a meeting full offifty-year-oldmen, andgoingto a black-tie event with thecrustiest red nose you eversaw.Aboutallowingmyselftobe treated by men in ways Iknew were wrong. Storiesabout my mother, mygrandmother, the first guy Iloved who turned semi-gay,and the first girl I lovedwhoturnedintomyenemy.AndifIcouldtakewhatI’velearned

and make one menial jobeasierforyou,orpreventyoufrom having the kind of sexwhereyoufeelyoumustkeepyour sneakers on in case youwant to run away during theact, then every misstep ofmine was worthwhile. I’malready predicting my futureshame at thinking I hadanythingtoofferyou,butalsomy future glory in havingstopped you from trying an

expensive juice cleanse orthinkingthatitwasyourfaultwhen the person you aredating suddenly backs away,intimidated by the clarity ofyourpersonalmissionhereonearth.No,Iamnotasexpert,apsychologist,oradietitian.Iam not a mother of three orthe owner of a successfulhosiery franchise.But I am agirl with a keen interest inhavingitall,andwhatfollows

are hopeful dispatches fromthefrontlinesofthatstruggle.

WHEN I WAS NINE, I wrote a

vowofcelibacyonapieceofpaper and ate it. I promisedmyself, in orange MagicMarker,thatIwouldremainavirgin until I graduated fromhigh school. This seemedimportantbecauseIknewmymother had waited until thesummer before college andalso because Angela Chaseseemed pretty messed up byher experience at thatflophouse where high school

kids went to copulate. If myrelationship to liver pâté wasany indication—and I hadrecently eaten somuch that Ibarfed—then my willpowerleft much to be desired. Iwould need somethingstronger than resolve toprevent me from havingintercourse too early in life,so I wrote the vow up andasked my mother to sign thedocument. She refused. “You

justdon’tknowwhat lifewillbring, and I don’t want youfeelingguilty,”shesaid.Ultimately, the contract

was an unnecessaryprecaution. The opportunitynever arose in high school,norevenduringmyfirstyearofcollegeattheNewSchool,unless you count a near misswith a stocky, aspiring pilotnamed James. Though neverconsummated, that encounter

wentfarenough that Ihad tofish a mint-colored, never-usedcondomoutfrombehindmy dormitory bunk bed thenextday.Everythinghadbeenmoving along nicely, andmyshirt and pants were off, butwhen I revealed my virginstatus, he became (perhapsrightfully) afraid I wouldformanunbreakableone-waybond with him and fled.Sophomoreyear,Itransferred

toasmallliberalartsschoolinOhio that was known forhaving been the first collegeto admit women and AfricanAmericans, as well as for itspolyamorous, bi-curiousstudent body. I was neither,but it did seem like a good,supportive environment inwhich to finally get the ballrolling.Oberlin was a free-love

fantasia. During the first

rainstorm of the year, nudestudents took to the quad,slathering one another’sbodies in mud. (I wore atankini.) People referred toeach other as “former lovers,current friends.” Therewas astudent-runsexseminarwhereevery year a boy and a girlwere recruited to show theirpenisandvagina,respectively,toaneagercrowdofaspiringDr.RuthWestheimers.

I really felt like the oldestvirginintown,andIprobablywas,saveforabustypunkgirlfrom Olympia, Washington,who was equally frustrated;sheandIwouldoftenmeetupin our nightgowns to discussthelackofprospects.JusttwoEmily Dickinsons with facialpiercings,wonderingwhatlifehad in store for us andwhether we had unwittinglycrossed the divide between

innocentandpathetic.“Josh Krolnik ran his

fingers along the elastic bandof my underwear! What dowethinkthatmeans?”“Hedidthattome,too…”We even noted, with no

small amount of terror, thatthe guy who wore a purplebathrobe to every class had agirl in Superman-printpajamas who seemed to lovehim. They looked at each

other gooey eyed, deep intheir own (no doubt sexual)worldofloungewear.The pickings were slim,

especially if, like me, youwere over bisexuals. At leasthalf the straight men oncampus played Dungeons &Dragons, and another quartereschewed footwear entirely.The cutest guy I had seen atschool so far, a long-hairedrock-climber named Privan,

hadrisenfromhisdeskattheend of class to reveal hewaswearingaflowingwhiteskirt.ItwasclearthatIwasgoingtohave to make someconcessions in order toexperiencecarnallove.

Imet Jonah1 in thecafeteria.Hedidn’thaveaspecificstyle

beyonddressingvaguelylikeamiddle-aged lesbian. He wassmallbutstrong.(Guysunderfive-foot-five seemed to bemy lot in life.) He wore a t-shirt from his high schoolspirit day (ahigh schoolwithaspiritday!howquaint!),andhis approach to the eternalbuffet that was the cafeteriawas pretty genteel, which Iliked—even the veganstendedtopiletheirplateslike

the apocalypse was comingand return to their dormscatatonic from the effort ofdigesting. I casuallymentioned how frustrated Iwas bymy inability to get toKentucky for a journalismproject, and he immediatelyoffered his services. Thoughstruck by his generosity, Ididn’t really want to take afive-hour drive with astranger. However, five to

forty-five minutes of sexseemedokay.The best way to do this,

obviously, was to throw awine-and-cheese party, whichIdid, inmyeight-by-ten-footroom on the “quiet floor” ofEast Hall. Procuring wineentailed mounting my bikeand riding seven subzeromiles to a package storein nearby Lorain that didn’tID,so itendedupbeingbeer

and cheese and a big box ofCarr’sassortedpartycrackers.Jonah was “casually” invitedinagroupemailthatmademesound a lot more relaxed(“Hey y’all, sometimes on aThursday night I just need tochill. DON’T YOU?”) than Iactually was. And he came,and he stayed, even after allmyguestshadpackedupandgone.That’swhenIknewthatwewouldatleastgotosloppy

second base. We talked, atfirst animatedly and then inthenervoushalfexclamationsthat substitute for kissingwhen everyone is too shy.Finally,Itoldhimthatmydadpainted huge pictures ofpenises for a job. When heasked if we could see themonline, I grabbed him by thescruff of his neck and wentfor it. I removed my shirtalmost immediately, as I had

with the pilot, which seemedtoimpresshim.Continuinginthe key of bold, I hopped upto get the condom from the“freshman survival pack” wehadbeengiven(eventhoughIwas a sophomore, and eventhoughIwasprettysureiftheapocalypsedidcomeweweregoingtoneedalotmorethanfakeRay-Bans,agranolabar,andsomemini-Band-Aids).Meanwhile,acrosscampus,

my friend Audrey was in aprivate hell of her owncreation. She had been in awar with her roommate allsemester, a voluptuous, RenFaire–loving Philadelphianwho was the lust object ofevery LARPer and black-metal aficionado on campus.Audrey just wanted somequiet time to read The NewRepublic and iChat with herboyfriend in Virginia, while

herroommatewasnowdatinga kid who had tried to cookmeth in the dorm kitchen,warrantinganemergencyvisitfrom men in hazmat suits.Audrey asked that herroommate not keep herNuvaRingbirthcontrol intheminifridge, which the girltook as an unforgivableaffronttoherhonor.

Before coming out to mybeer-and-

cheese soiree,Audrey hadleft herroommate a

note: “If you could pleasehave quieter sex as weapproach our midterms, I’dreally appreciate it.” Herroommate’s response was toburn Audrey’s note, scattertheashesacrossthefloor,andleaveanoteofherown:“URa frigid bitch. Get the sand

outofURvagina.”Audrey ran back to my

room,hopingforasleepover.Shewassobbing,terrifiedthatthe burnt note was just aprecursor to serious bodilyharm, and also pretty sure Iwas alone, finishing thecheese, so she flungmydooropenwithout knocking—onlyto find Jonah on top of me.She immediately understoodthemagnitudeoftheoccasion

and, through her tears, cried,“Mazeltov!”

I didn’t tell Jonah I was avirgin, just that I hadn’t doneit “that much.” I was sure Ihadalreadybrokenmyhymeninhigh schoolwhilecrawlingover a fence in Brooklyn inpursuit of a cat that didn’twant to be rescued. Still, ithurt more than I’d expectedand in adifferentway, too—duller, less like a stabwound

andmorelikeaheadache.Hewasnervous,and, inanod togender equality, neither of uscame.Afterwardwelaythereandtalked,andIcouldtellhewas a good person, whateverthatevenmeans.

I awoke the next morning,just like Idideverymorning,

and proceeded to do all mynormal things: I called mymother, drank three cups oforange juice, atehalfablockof thesharpcheddar thathadbeensittingoutsincethenightbefore, and listened to girl-with-guitarmusic.I lookedatpicturesofcute thingson theInternet and inspected mybikini line for excitingingrown hairs. I checked myemail, folded my sweaters,

thenunfoldedallthesweatersin the process of trying todecidewhichsweatertowear.Thatnight,lyingdownfeltthesame, and sleep came easily.No floodgate had beenopened. No vault of truewomanhood unlocked. Sheremained,andshewasme.Jonah and I only had sex

once. The next day, hestopped by to say that hethoughtwe’ddoneittoosoon,

and we should take a fewweeks to get to know eachother better. Then he askedmetobehisgirlfriend,putonmy hot-pink bicycle helmet,and proclaimed it was “thegoing-steady helmet,” givingme a manic thumbs-up. I“dated”himfortwelvehours,then ended it in the laundryroom of his dormitory. OverChristmasbreak,hesentmeaFacebook message that read,

simply:“YourHot.”Sex was clearly easier to

havethanIhadgivenitcreditfor. It occurred to me that Ihad,forthepastfewyears,setmy sights on boys whoweren’t interested inme, andthis was because I wasn’tready.Despite all themoviesabout wayward prep-schoolgirlsIlikedtowatch,myhighschoolyearshadbeendevotedto loving my pets, writing

poems about back-alley love,and surrendering my bodyonlytomyownfantasies.AndIwasn’treadytoletgoofthatyet.Iwassurethat,onceIletsomeone penetrate me, myworld would change in someindescribableyetfundamentalway.Iwouldneverbeabletohugmyparentswiththesameinnocence, and being alonewith myself would have adifferent tenor. How could I

ever experience true solitudeagain when I’d had someonepokingaroundmyinsides?

How permanent virginityfeels, and then howinconsequential. After Jonah,I could barely remember thesensation of lack, theembarrassment, and thefeelings of urgency. Iremember passing the punkgirl arm in arm with herboyfriendsenioryear,andwe

didn’t even exchange asurvivor’snod.Shewaslikelyhaving sex every night, heramplebosomheaving in timeto somehard-coremusic,ourbond erased by experience.We weren’t part of any clubanymore, just part of theworld.Goodforher.

Only later did sex andidentity become one. I wrotethat virginity-loss scenealmost word for word in my

firstfilm,CreativeNonfiction,minus thepartwhereAudreybusted down the door, afraidfor her life. When Iperformed thatsexscene,myfirst,IfeltmorechangedthanIhadbytheactualexperienceof having sex with Jonah.Likethatwasjustsex,butthiswasmywork.

1 Name changed to protect the trulyinnocent.

FORALONGTIME,Iwasn’tsure

if I liked sex. I likedeverything that led up to it:the guessing, the tentative,loadedinteractions,thestiltedconversation on the coldwalks home, looking atmyself in the mirror insomeone else’s closet-sizedbathroom.I likedtheglimpseit gave me into my partner’ssubconscious, which wasmaybetheonlytimeIactuallybelieved anyone besides me

even existed. I liked the partwhere I got the sense thatsomeone else could, maybeeven did, desire me. But sexitselfwas amystery.Nothingquite fit. Intercourse felt,often, like shoving a loofahintoaMasonjar.AndIcouldnever sleep afterward. If weparted ways, my mind wasbuzzing and I couldn’t getclean.Ifweslept in thesamebed, my legs cramped and I

staredatthewall.HowcouldIsleepwhen the person besideme had firsthand knowledgeofmymucousmembranes?Junior year of college, I

found a solution to thisproblem:platonicbedsharing,theactofwelcomingapersonyou’re attracted to into yourbed for a night that containseverything but sex. You willlaugh. You will cuddle. Youwillavoidall thehumiliations

and unwanted noises thataccompanyamateursex.Sharing beds platonically

offered me the chance toshowoffmynightclotheslikea 1950s housewife andexperience a frisson ofpassion,minustheinvasionofmy insides. It was efficient,likewhat pioneers do to staywarmonicymountainpasses.The only question was tospoon or not to spoon. The

nextday I felt thewarmthofhaving been wanted, minusthe terrible flashes of dick,balls,andspitthatplayedonaloop the day after a realsexualencounter.OfcourseatthetimeIwas

doing it, I had none of thisself-awareness aboutmy ownmotives and consideredplatonic bed sharing my lot:not ugly enough to berepulsive and not beautiful

enough to seal the deal. Mybed was a rest stop for thelonely, and Iwas the spinsterinnkeeper.

Isharedabedwithmysister,Grace, until I was seventeenyears old. She was afraid tosleep alone and would beginasking me around 5:00 P.M.

every day whether she couldsleepwithme. I put on abigshow of saying no, takingpleasure in watching her begand sulk, but eventually Ialways relented. Her sticky,muscly little body thrashedbeside me every night as Iread Anne Sexton, watchedreruns of SNL, sometimesevenasIslippedmyhandintomyunderwear tofiguresomestuff out. Grace had the

comforting, sleep-inducingproperties of a hot-waterbottleoracat.I always pretended to hate

it. I complained to myparents: “No other teenagershave to share beds unlessthey’re REALLY POOR!Someone please get her tosleep alone!She’s ruiningmylife!” After all, she had herownbedthatshechosenottosleep in. “Take it up with

her,” they said, well awarethat I, too, got something outofthearrangement.The truth is I had no right

to complain, having beenaffected by childhood “sleepissues” so severe that myfather says he didn’texperience an uninterruptednight’srestbetween1986and1998. To me, sleep equaleddeath. How was closing youreyesand losingconsciousness

any different from death?What separated temporaryloss of consciousness frompermanent obliteration? Icould not face this prospectby myself, so every night I’dhave to be dragged kickingand screaming to my room,whereIdemandedaseriesoftuck-in rituals so elaboratethat I’m shocked my parentsneverhitme(hard).Then around 1:00 A.M.,

oncemy parents were finallyasleep, I would creep intotheirroomandkickmyfatherout of bed, settling into thewarmth of his spot andpassingoutbesidemymother,the brief guilt of displacinghimfaroutweighedbythejoyof no longer being alone. Itonly occurred to me recentlythatthiswasprobablymywayof making sure my parentsdidn’teverhavesexagain.

My poor father, desperateto end the cold war that hadbroken out around sleep inour house, told me that if Iretiredatnineeverynightandstayedpeacefullyinmyroomhe would wake me at 3:00A.M. and carry me into hisown.Thisseemedreasonable:I wouldn’t have theopportunitytobedeadfortoomanyhoursbymyself,andhewouldstopyellingatmequite

somuch.Hekepthisendup,dutifullyrisingat3:00A.M. tocomeandmoveme.Thenonenight,whenIwas

eleven, he didn’t. I didn’tnotice, until I awoke at 7:00A.M. to the sounds of ourmorning, Grace alreadydownstairs enjoying organicfrozen waffles and CartoonNetwork. I looked aroundgroggily,outragedbythelightstreaming in through my

window.“YOU BROKE YOUR

PROMISE,”Isobbed.“But you were okay,” he

pointed out. I couldn’t argue.He was right. It was a reliefnot to have seen theworld at3:00A.M.

As soon as my issuesdisappeared,Grace’s replacedthem, as if sleep disorderswere a family business beingpasseddownthroughtheages.

And though I persisted incomplaining, I still secretlycherishedher presence inmybed. The light snoring, theway she put herself to sleepby counting cracks in theceiling, noting them with amousy sound that is bestspelled like this: Miep MiepMiep. The way her littlepajama top rode up over herbelly. My baby girl. I waskeeping her safe until

morning.

It all began with JaredKrauter.HewasthefirstthingI noticed at the New Schoolorientation, leaning againstthewalltalkingtoagirlwithabuzzcut—hisanimeeyes,hisflared women’s jeans, histhickhelmetofPrinceValianthair.Hewas the first guy I’d

seen in Keds, and I wasmoved by the confidence ittookforhim toweardelicatelady shoes. I was moved byhis entire being. If I’d beenalone,IwouldhavesliddownthebackofadoorandsighedlikeNatalieWoodinSplendorintheGrass.

Thiswasnottechnicallythefirst time I’d seen Jared. Hewasacitykid,andheusedtohang around outsidemy high

school waiting for his friendfrom camp. Every time Ispotted him I’d think tomyself,That is onehotpieceofass.

“Hey,” I said, sidlingup tohim in my flesh-toned tubetop. “I think I’ve seen yououtside Saint Ann’s. YouknowSteph,right?”

Jared was friendlier thancoolguysaresupposed tobe.Heinvitedmetocomeseehis

band play later that night. Itwas thefirstofmanygigs I’dattend—andthefirstofmanynights we’d spend in my topbunk, pressed against eachother like sardines, neverkissing. At first, it seemedlike shyness. Like he was agentlemanandweweretakingour time. Surely it wouldhappen at some point, andwe’drememberthesetentativedays with a laugh, then fuck

passionately. But daysstretchedintoweeksstretchedintomonths,andhisfondnessforme never took a turn forthe sexual. I pined for him,despite sleeping pressedagainst his body. His skinsmelledlikesoapandsubway,andwhenheslept,hiseyelidsfluttered.Despite his indie-rock

swagger and access to freealcohol via his job as a

bouncer, Jared was a virginjust like me. We found thesamethingsfunny(aMexicangirl in our dormwho told usherparents livein“acondomin Florida”), the same fooddelicious (onion rings,perhaps the reason we neverkissed), and the same musicheady (whatever he said Ishould listen to). He was ashield against loneliness,against fights with my mom

andC-minuspapersandmeanbartenderswhodidn’tbuymyfake ID. When I told him Iwas transferring schools, hetearedup.Thenextweek,hedroppedout.

AtOberlin,ImissedJared.His midsection against myback. The slightly sour smellof his breath when it caughtmy cheek. Coagreeing tosleepthroughthealarm.Butitdidn’ttakemelongtoreplace

him.FirstcameDevCoughlin,a

pianostudentInoticedonhisway back from the showerand became determined tokiss. He had the severe faceand impossibly great hair ofAlainDelonbutsaid“wicked”more than most French NewWave actors. One night wewalked out to the softballfield,whereItoldhimIwasavirgin,andhetoldmehehad

mold in his dorm room andneededaplacetocrash.Whatfollowedwas an intense two-week period of bed sharing,not totally platonic becausewe kissed twice. The rest ofthetimeIwrithedaroundlikea cat in heat, hoping he’dgraze me in a way I couldtranslateintopleasure.I’mnotsure if the mold waseradicated or my desperationbecametoomuchforhim,but

hemovedbacktohisroominmid-October. I mourned theloss for a few weeks beforeswitching over to JerryBarrow.

Jerry was a physics majorfrom Baltimore who woreglasses, and unusually shortpants (shants), and whoalternatedbetween the screennamesSherylcrowsingsmystory andBoobynation. If Jared and

Devhadbeenbeautifultome,then Jerry was pure utility. Iknew we would never fall inlove, but his solid physicalpresence soothedme, andwefell into a week of bedsharing. He had enough self-respect to remove himselffrom the situation after Iinvited his best friend, JoshBerenson, to sleep on theothersideofme.Righton,bro.

JoshwasthegenreofguyIlike to call “hot for camp,”and he had a nihilistic,cartoonish sense of humorthat I enjoyed. Despite mypracticing “the push in,” themovewhereyouadvanceyourassslowlybutsurelyonto thecrotch of an unsuspectingman,heshowednointerestinengaging physically with me.The closest we came waswhenhe ran a flattenedpalm

over my left breast, like hewas an alien who had beengiven a lesson in humansexualitybyarobot.

By this point, word wasgetting around: Lena likes tosharebeds.

Guyfriendswhocameoverto study would just assumethey were staying. Boys wholived across campus wouldasktocrashsothattheycouldget to class early in the

morning. My reputation wasprecedingme, and not in thewayIhadalwaysdreamedof.(Example: Have you metLena?Ihavenevermetamoresimultaneously creative andsexualwoman.Herhipsaresoflexible she could join thecircus,butshe’stoosmart.)ButI had standards, and Iwouldn’tshareabedwithjustanyone. Among the army Irefused:

Nikolai, a Russian guy inpointy black boots who readto me from a WilliamBurroughs book about cats,his face very close to mine.He was a twenty-six-year-oldsophomore who referred tovaginas as “pink” like it was1973.Jason, a psych major who

toldmehisdreamwastohaveseven children he could taketoYankeesgameswithhimso

they could wear lettermanjackets that collectivelyspelledouttheteamname.Patrick,sosweetandsmall

thatIdidlethimintomybed,just once, and in the weehoursIawoketofindhisarmhovering above me, as if heweretooafraidtoletitrestonmy side. “The Hover-Spooner” we called himforevermore, even after hebecame known around

campus as the guy whopoured vodka up his buttthroughafunnel.

I learned to masturbate thesummer after third grade. Iread about it in a pubertybook, which described it as“touching your private partsuntil you have a very good

feeling, like a sneeze.” Theidea of a vaginal sneezeseemed embarrassing at bestanddisgustingatworst,but itwas a pretty boring summer,so I decided to explore myoptions.

I approached it clinicallyover a number of days, lyingon the bath mat in the onlybathroom in our summerhousethathadalockingdoor.I touched myself using

different pressures, rhythms.The sensationwaspleasant inthe same way as a foot rub.Oneafternoon, lying thereonthe mat, I looked up to findmyselfeyetoeyewithababybat who was hanging upsidedown on the curtain rod.Westaredateachotherinstunnedsilence.

Finallyoneday,towardtheend of the summer, the hardwork paid off, and I felt the

sneeze, which was actuallymore like a seizure. I took amoment on the bath mat tocollect myself, then rose towashmy hands. I checked tomake sure my face wasn’tfrozen into any strangeposition, that I still lookedlikemyparents’ child,beforeIheadeddownstairs.Sometimes as an adult,

when I’m having sex, imagesfrom the bathroom come to

meunbidden.Theknotty-pinepaneling of the ceiling, eatenaway like Swiss cheese. Mymother’s fancy soaps in acaddy above the claw-foottub. The rusty bucket wherewekeepourtoiletpaper.Icansmell the wood. I can hearboatsrevvingonthe lake,mysister dragging her tricyclebackandforthontheporch.Iam hot. I am hungry for asnack.Butmostly,Iamalone.

WhenIgraduatedandmovedback in with my parents, thebed sharing continued—Bo,Kevin,Norris—andbecameareal point of contention. Mymotherexpresseddistress,notonlyathavingstrangemeninherhousebutatthefactthatIhad an interest in such athankless activity. “It’s worse

than fucking them all!” shesaid.“You don’t owe everybody

acrashpad,”myfathersaid.They didn’t get it. They

didn’t get any of it. Hadn’ttheyeverfeltalonebefore?I remembered seventh

grade,whenmyfriendNatalieand I started sleeping in herTV room on Friday andSaturday nights, everyweekend. We would watch

Comedy Central or SaturdayNight Live and eat cold pizzauntil one or two, pass out onthefoldoutcouch,thenawakeatdawntoseeheroldersisterHolly and her albinoboyfriend sneaking into herbedroom. This went on for afew months, reliable andblissful and oddly domestic,our routine as set as anyeighty-year-old couple’s. Butone Friday after school she

coolly told me she “neededspace” (where a twelve-year-old girl got this line I willnever know), and I wasdevastated.Backathome,myownroomfelt likeaprison.Ihad gone from perfectcompanionshiptononeatall.In response Iwrote a short

story, tragic and Carver-esque, about a young womanwho had come to the city tomakeitasaBroadwayactress

and been seduced by acontrolling constructionworker who had forced herinto domestic slavery. Shespentherdayswashingdishesand frying eggs and fightingwith the slumlord of theirtenement apartment. Theconclusion of the storyinvolved her creeping to aphone booth to call hermother in Kansas City, aplace I had never been. Her

mother announced she haddisowned her, so she keptwalking, toward who knowswhat. I don’t remember anyspecific phrasing except thisclosing sentence: She wantedtosleepwithoutthepressureofhisarms.

For a brief time I was in a

relationship with a formertelevision personality who,steepedinthetragedyofearlyfailure, had moved to LosAngeles to make a new lifefor himself. I was living at aresidential hotel in LA, in abeige room that overlookedthe garden of two elderlymalenudists,andIwaslonelyashellanddidn’thatekissinghim. He still vaguelyresembledapersonIhadseen

on my TV as a tween, andwhenwewentout together, Ioften watched the faces ofwaitresses and cabdrivers,looking for a flash ofrecognition. But kissing wasasfarasiteverwent.Hewas,he told me, scarredemotionally by a formerrelationship, a dead dog, andsomething related to the IraqWar(whichhehadnot,tomyknowledge,foughtin).Iliked

hisapartment.Hehadblown-glass lamps, a graying blacklab, a refrigerator full ofPerrier. He kept his homeofficeneat,achalkboardwithhis ideas scrawled on it theonly decoration. Drivingthrougharainstormonenightwe hydroplaned, and hegrabbed my leg like a dadwould. We took a hike inMalibuandsharedicecream.I stayed with him while he

had walking pneumonia,heatingsoupandpouringhimglass after glass of ginger aleand feeling his feveredforehead as he slept. Hewarnedmeofthelifethatwascoming for me if I wasn’tcareful. Success was a scarything for a young person, hesaid.Iwastwenty-fourandhewasthirty-three(“Jesus’sage,”he remindedmemore than afew times). There was

something tender about him,brokenandgentle,andIcouldimagine that sex with himmight be similar. I wouldn’thavetopretendlikeIdidwithother guys.Maybe we wouldbothcry.Maybeitwouldfeeljustasgoodassharingabed.On Valentine’s Day, I put

onlaceunderwearandbeggedhim to please, finally, havesex with me. The litany ofexcuses he presented in

response was comic in itstragedy: “I want to get toknow you.” “I don’t have acondom.” “I’m scared,because I just like you toomuch.” He took an Ambienand fell asleep, arm overmyside, and as I lay there,wideawake and itchy in mylingerieset,itoccurredtome:this was humiliating, unsexy,and, worst sin of all, boring.Thiswasn’tcomfort.Thiswas

paralysis. This was distancepassing for connection. Iwasbeing desexualized in slowmotion, becoming a teddybearwithbreasts.I was a working woman. I

deservedkisses. Ideserved tobetreatedlikeapieceofmeatbut also respected for myintellect.AndIcouldaffordacab home. So I called one,and his sad dog with theHebrew name watched me

hophisfenceandpaceat thecurbsideuntilmytaxicame.

Here’swhoit’sokaytoshareabedwith:

Your sister if you’re a girl,your brother if you’re a boy,yourmomifyou’reagirl,andyour dad if you’re undertwelve or he’s over ninety.

Yourbestfriend.Acarpenteryou picked up at the key-lime-pie stand in Red Hook.A bellhop you met in thebusiness center of a hotel inColorado.ASpanishmodel,apuppy, a kitten, one of thosedomesticated minigoats. Aheatingpad.Anemptybagofpita chips. The love of yourlife.Here’swho it’snotokay to

shareabedwith:

Anyone who makes youfeel likeyou’re invading theirspace. Anyone who tells youthat they “just can’t be aloneright now.” Anyone whodoesn’t make you feel likesharing a bed is the coziestandmostsensualactivitytheycouldpossiblybeundertaking(unless,ofcourse,itisoneofthe aforementioned relatives;in that case, they should actlovingly but also

reserved/slightlyannoyed).Now, look over at the

person beside you. Do theymeet these criteria? If not,remove them or removeyourself. You’re better offalone.

1.“MynicknameinhighschoolwasBlow-JobLena,butbecauseIgaveNOblowjobs!LikewhenyoucallafatguySkinnyJoe.”

2.“IonlygetBOinonearmpit.Swear.Samewithmy

mother.”

3.“Ioncewokeupinthemiddleofsexwithavirtualstranger!”

4.“Let’smeetforcoffee,yeah.Well,notcoffeecoffee.Likeadifferentdrink,becausecoffeegavemeacoloninfectionandIhadtowearthispaperunderwearthe

hospitalgaveme.”

5.“Nottosoundlikeatotalhippie,butIcuredmyHPVwithacupuncture.”

6.“Hehadnolegs,andHEwasn’tintoME.Butthat’snotwhywestoppedbeingfriends.”

7.“I’veneverseenStarWars

ORTheGodfather,sothatwouldbeagoodexcuseforustospendabunchoftimetogether.”

8.“Iwasareallychubbyteenager,coveredinathicklayerofgrease.Seriously,I’llshowyouapicture.”

9.“Youshouldcomeover.Mydadissuperfunny.”

10.“I’mthekindofpersonwhoshouldprobablydateolderguys,butIcan’tdealwiththeirballs.”

11.“I’mobsessedwiththecurtainsinyourvan!”

12.“Cometomyparty!Wecan’ttalkormakenoisebecausemyneighborisdying,butIspentatonofmoneyon

salami.”

13.“Getclosertomybellybutton.Doesthislooklikeshingles,scabies,both,orneither?”

14.“Thisonetime,IthoughtIwaspettingmyhairlesscat,anditwasactuallymymom’svagina.Overthecovers,ofcourse!”

15.“Sorryifmybreathiskindofmetallic.It’smymedication.Weirdfact:I’monthehighestdoseofthisstuffonrecord.”

16.“Iseriouslydon’tcareifyoushoplift.”

17.“Iappreciatethatyoudidn’tpointoutmyhugeweightloss.It’sexhausting,

everyonebeinglike‘Howdidyoudoit?Blah-blah-blah.’”

18.“Mysisterwentbackinside,soIthinkwe’resafe.Wannasitontherockthatdoesn’thavealgae?Orthealgaeoneisfine,too.”

THE COMPUTERS just show upone day. We come in from

recess, and there they are,seven gray boxes on a longtable in the fifth-floorhallway.“We got computers!” our

teacherannounces.“Andtheyaregoingtohelpuslearn!”Everyone is buzzing, but I

am immediately suspicious.What is so great about ourhall being full of ugly squatrobots? Why is everyonecheeringlikeidiots?Whatcan

welearnfromthesemachinesthat we can’t from ourteachers?The boys especially are

transfixed, spending everyfree moment tap-tap-tappingon the keyboards, playing asimplistic game that involvesstackingblocksinanefforttomake them explode. I stayaway.Ihaveonlytouchedoneother computer, atmy friendMarissa’s house, and found

the experience disconcerting.There was something sinisterabout the green letters andnumbers that flashed on thescreenasthecomputerbootedup, and I hated the wayMarissa stopped answeringquestions or noticing me theseconditwasturnedon.My distaste for computers

hasanalmost-politicalfervor:they’rechangingoursociety,Isay, and for the worse. Let’s

acthuman.Converse.Useourhandwriting. I ask to beexcused from typing class,where we use a programcalledMavisBeaconTeachesTyping to learn which fingershould touch which letter.(PinkieonP,shesays.PinkieonP.)Whiletheothers trytoplease Mavis, I write in mynotebook.At parent-teacher

conferences my teacher tells

my mother and father that Ishow “a real hostility towardtechnology.”ShewishesIwaswilling to “embrace newdevelopments in theclassroom.”Whenmymotherannounces we will be gettingoneofourownathome,Igoto my room and turn on thetiny black-and-white TV Iboughtatayardsale,refusingtocomeoutforoveranhour.Itarrivesoneeveningafter

school, an Apple with amonitor the size of amovingbox. A guy with a ponytailinstalls it, shows my motherhow to use the CD-ROMdrive,andasksifIwanttoseethe “preinstalled” games. Ishake my head: No. No, Idon’t.But the computer exerts a

magnetic pull, sitting there inthemiddleofourlivingroom,humming ever so slightly. I

watch asmy babysitterwalksmy sister through a game ofOregonTrail,onlytohaveherentire digital family die ofdysentery before they canford the river. My mothertypes aWord document withher two pointer fingers.“Don’tyouwanttotryit?”sheasks.Finally, the temptation is

toogreat.Iwanttotry,toseewhatall thefuss isabout,but

Idon’twanttobeahypocrite.Ialreadywentbackonbeingavegetarian and was soashamed I told the girls atlunch that my sandwich wastofu prosciutto. I have to betrue to myself. I can’t keeprejiggering my identity, andhating computers is a part ofmy identity. One day mymother is in her bedroomorganizing her shoes, and thecoast is clear. Iwalk into the

living room, sit down in thecold metal office chair, andslowly extend my fingertoward the power button.Listentoitbootup,ping,andpurr. I feel an exhilaratingsenseoftrespass.

In fifth grade we all getscreen names. We message

withoneanother,butwealsogo to chat rooms, digitalhangouts with names likeTeen Hang and A Place forFriends. It takes me a littlewhiletowrapmyheadaroundthe idea of anonymity. Ofpeople I can’t see who can’tseeme.Ofbeingseenwithoutbeing seen at all. KatiePomerantz and I jointly takeon thepersonaofa fourteen-year-old model named

Mariah, who has flowingblackhair,B-cupbreasts,andan endless supply of smileyfaces. Aware of Mariah’sincredible power, we ensnareboys, promising themwe arebeautiful, popular, andlooking for love, as well asrich off of our teen-modelearnings. We giggle as wetake turns typing, reveling inour power. At one point, weask a boy in Delaware to

checkthetagofhisjeansandtellusthebrand.“They’re Wrangler,” he

writes back. “My mom gotthematWalmart.”Feverish with triumph, we

logout.

Juliana isnew toninthgrade.Shedoesn’tknowanyone,but

she has the confidence ofsomeone who has beenpopular since kindergarten.She’s a punk: her nose ispierced, and her hair isspiked. She wears ahomemade T-shirt that readsleftovercrack,andherfaceisso beautiful that sometimes Ican’t help but imagine itsuperimposed over my own.Julianaisaveganforpoliticalreasons and seems to

genuinely enjoy musicwithout a melody.When shetellsmethatshe’shadsex—inan alleyway, no less, with atwenty-year-old guy—it takesmeaweektorecover.“I was wearing a skirt, so

he just pulled my underwearto the side,” she says, ascasuallyas if shewere tellingme what her mom made fordinner.Twomonthsintoschoolshe

uses her fake ID to get atattoo, a nautical star on theback of her neck, the linesthickandinelegant.Iasktorunmyfingersover

the scab, unable to believethiswillexistforever.A lot of Juliana’s punk

friends live in New Jersey,where she often goes on theweekends for “shows.” Atlunch, we look at theirhomemade Angelfire.com

websites,oneofwhichhasanimageofadecomposingbabycarcassonthehomepage.Butmostly they post pictures ofthemselves sweaty and piledhigh in front of makeshiftstages.It’shardtotellwho’sinthe band and who is justhanging out. She points outShane, aprettyblond shehasa crush on. His website iscalled Str8OuttaCompton, areference I won’t get for

another ten years. In one ofShane’sphotos,apictureofaconcert in a crampedbasement, I notice a boy, tanwith chubby cheeks andvacantblueeyes,moshingoffto the side, a bandanna tiedaround his head. “Who’sthat?”Iask.

“His name isIgor,” Julianatells me. “He’sRussian. Vegan, too. He’s

reallynice.”“He’scute,”Isay.That night, an instant-

messagebubblepopsupfromPyro0001.Iaccept.

Pyro0001:Hey,it’sIgor.

For the next three months,

IgorandIinstantmessageforhourseverynight.Igethomearound three thirty, and hecomes home at four, so Imakemyselfasnackandwaitforhisnametoappear.Iwantto lethimsay“hey”first,butusually I can’t wait that long.Wetalkaboutanimals.Aboutschool. About the injusticesof the world, most of themdirected at innocent animalswho can’t defend themselves

against theevilsofhumanity.He’samanoffewwords,butthewordsheusesareperfecttome.I am no longer opposed to

the computer. I am in lovewithit.Noguys likemeat school.

Some ignoremewhile othersare outright cruel, but nonewant to kiss me. I’m stilldistraught over a seventh-grade breakup and refuse to

attend parties I know my exwill be at. At this point, myheartbreak has lasted twenty-four times as long as ourrelationship.

Igorwantstoseeaphotoofme, so I sendhimoneofmeagainst my bedroomwall, onwhichIhavedrawntreesandnudeswithaSharpie.Myhairhangs in a yellow, flat-ironedcurtain, and I am cracking aglossy half smile. Igor says I

look like Christina Aguilera.He’sapunk,soitseemsmorelikeafactualassessment thana compliment, but I amthrilled.

We message throughdinner, through fights withourparents.Hedescribeshowquietitiswhenhegetshome,how his parents aren’t backuntil eight. He says “brb”when he goes to the door togethisdeliverydinner,which

is usually eggplant parmminus the parm. He tells methat he goes to the kind ofschool that has popular kidsand losers, jocks, and freaks.A big public school with aclass full of strangers. Myschool is supposed to bedifferent, small and creativeandinclusive,butsometimesIfeel just as isolated as hedoes.Istartdescribingkidsatschool as “bimbos” and

“fakes,” words I neverwouldhavethoughttousebeforeheintroduced them.Words he’llunderstandand thatwilldrawhimtome.When I go on

vacationwithmyfamily, I ask thehotel office toletme use the computer so Ican send Igor an email onValentine’s Day. He tells mehedoesn’twant to sendme a

new picture of himselfbecause he’s had “somepimples” lately. My father isirritated that I take the timeawayfromthebeachtosit ina windowless office with awoman smoking Newportsand send love notes tosomeone I’ve never met. Hedoesn’tgetit.Hedoesn’tevenhaveemail.

Juliana says that Igor’sfriend Shane says that Igor

says he really likes me. Thisemboldens me to ask him totalk on the phone. He seemseager and takes my numberbut never calls. Juliana saysshe thinks he may be self-consciousabouthisaccent.

Trixiebelle86:Ifudon’tlikethefonemay-bwecudmeetinperson?

He agrees to meet me thefollowing Saturday on SaintMark’s Place. He’ll take thetrain in, and we’ll find eachotheronthecorner.Igo,inatank top, cargo pants, and ashrunken denim jacket, eventhough it’s freezing. I’m sonervous, I arrive twentyminutes early. He isn’t thereyet. I wait another half hour,buthenevercomes.I tryandlook relaxed as piercedNYU

kids and pink-haired Asiangirls stream past me. I gohomeand logon,buthe isn’tthereeither.

The next day, hemessagesme:

Pyro0001:Sorry.Grounded.May-Bsumothertime.

Gradually, Igor stopsmessagingme.Whenhedoesmake contact, it’s only torespond. He never initiates.Every time that ping sounds,signaling a message, I run tothecomputer,hopingit’shim.Butit’sonlyJohn,akidfromanearbyschoolwhoexcelsatbreak dancing, or my friendStephanie, complaining about

her Peruvian father’s strictrules about skirt length. Igordoesn’t askme any questionsanymore.Ourrelationshiphadhummed with possibility: thepossibility of meeting, oflikingeachotherevenmoreinperson thanwedidonline,offalling in love with eachother’s eyes and smell andsneakers.Nowit’soverbeforeit began. I wonder whether Icanconsiderhimanex.

One day, in late summer,JulianaIMsme.

Northernstar2001:LenaIgorisdead.Trixiebelle86:What???Northernstar2001:ShaneIMdme.Hehadamethadoneoverdose,

chokedonhisowntongueinhisbasement.Itsfukked.He’sanonlychildandhisparentsdon’tlikespeakEnglish.Trixiebelle86:DidShanesayifIgorstoppedlikingme?

I’m not sure who to tellbecauseI’mnotsurewhowillcare, and I don’t want toexplain the whole thing toanyone. Itwas impossible formy parents to understand thereality of Igor when he wasalive,sowhywouldtheygetitwhenhewasdead?

A year later I have tochange my screen name

because a boy at school, amassivehairyboywithafacelike a Picasso painting, sendsmeanemailsayinghe’sgoingto rape me and cover me inbarbecuesauce.He’s theonlyguywholikesmeinthatway,but I wish he wouldn’t. Hementions having a macheteandattachesaphotographofakitten that has been stuffedinsideabottleandlefttodie.Myfather is justifiablyangry

and calls my uncle, who is alawyer and says the policeneed to be involved. For thefirst and last time, I amescortedhomefromschoolbythecops.Whentheygotohishouse, they find he hasprinted and saved all of ourinstant messages, pages andpages of them. One of theofficers implies I shouldn’thavebeen sonice tohim if Ididn’t like him “that way.” I

tell them I just felt sorry forhim. They say I should bemore careful in the future. Iamashamed.My new screen name

includesmy real nameand isonlysharedwithselectfriendsand family, but I transfer allmy contacts, so I can alwayssee who is logged on when.One day, in my here to chatbar,Iseehim:Pyro0001.Theworld goes fast, then slow

again, the way it doessometimes when I get up topeeinthenightandthewholehouse sounds like it’s sayingLena,Lena,Lena.“Hey,”Itype.Thenamedisappears.I walk around for the rest

of that day like I’ve seen aghost.Itypehisfullnameintomultiple search engines,looking for an obituary orsomeevidencethatheexisted.

I mean, Juliana knew him.She met him. She heard hisaccent. He was real. He isdead. Fake people don’t die.Fakepeopledon’tevenexist.Years later, I will give his

lastnametoacharacteronmytelevision show. A smokesignal, so thatwhoeverwantsto know can know: he waskind tome.He had things tosay.TherewasawayinwhichIlovedhim.Idid,Idid,Idid.

——September27,2010A.,1

Before I get back towriting I had to jot thisdown to you.2 Like, thelast six times we’vespoken it has ended witha series of long silenceswhere I say something,then another thing tomodify it, then I sort ofapologize, then I sort ofunapologize.3 That wouldbefunnyasascene inanindie rom-com,4 funny

the first few times ithappens, but it doesn’tneedtohappenbecauseIshould justbeable togetoff the phone and say“enjoyyourday,A.,I’lltalkwith you soon.” I’mobviously fishing for stuffand then explaining itawaybetweensilences.

I should stopapologizing for beingoverly analytical about

this, even though I amsorry (not to youbut in adeeper way, sorry formybrainchemistryandwhoIam. I do what I can thatisn’t heroin to modify itbut Iwasbornasanxiousand obsessive as anyincredibly gorgeous childever could be.)5 Thedynamics of romanticrelationshipsareobviouslyfascinating to us both,

artistically andtheoretically.6 Ditto sex.But it’s harder toincorporate into youractual working life in awaythat’scomfortable.7

I obviously like you alot. Not in a scaryoppressive way8 and notinan “I justcame lookingat a picture of you” way(thoughIdiddothat)9butinthewaythatIamgoing

out of my way to makeyou a part of my life, orjust to figure out what itcould be. I was so readyto spend four months inLos Angeles reallyembracing this alien cityof bad trees, letting myparentsvisitmeandhikingand maybe dating somedouche bag just for thestory.10 A week before Imet you I quipped to

someone “I would be ahorrible girlfriend at thispoint in my life, becauseI’m both needy andunavailable.”11 Jokesaren’tjustjokes.12

It feels really good tocheckinwithyou,andI’mintriguedbythepossibilityofsharingcertainkindsofconcerns regularly.13

Because I’m here andyou’re there it can’t

happentotallyorganically,and because I’m me Ihave a hard time sittingwith that. So that’s why ItrytounderstandifI’llseeyou when I come home,or if you think about mewhen you jerk off,14 orjusthowavailableyouareto have your life futzedwithalittlebit.The night of the partywhen wemet, when you

told me to meet you onthe corner, I was reallysure that I would go outthere and you’d havetricked me and gonesomeplaceelse.And thenyouweren’texactlywhereyousaidyou’dbebutyouwerenearby.15

OK,16

L17

p.s. If you don’t haveanything to say back to

this email it will be somekind of incredible poeticjustice.18 Also, sorry thisemailissounfunny.19

1Addressingmybelovedbya singleinitial seemed romantic, like thedesperate and secretive correspondenceof twomarried intellectuals in the latenineteenth century. Lest the meddlingpostmaster discover our identities and

reveal our affair to our vindictivespouses, we will communicate using acode.Thatcodeshallbe:thefirst letterofournames.

2“Jot”isaprettycasualwordforthedissertation on emotional dysfunctionthat follows. Throughout the course ofthisrelationship,IwroteA.epicsthathewouldanswerwitheithera singleword(“cool,” “sure”)or a screedona totallyunrelated matter that was currentlynagging him, like the impossibility offinding fashionablewinter boots or the

lack of modern-day Hemingways. Iwould comb these emails, searchingdesperately for a hint that they weretrulyforandaboutme,andcomeawayknowing only that they had, in fact,beensenttomyaddress.

3Me:So…[Beat.]Me: Are you still there? I’m feeling

kindof…Ijustwonderifperhapswhen I say something you couldsay something because that iscalled…

[Beat.]Me:Aconversation.4Ironicreferencestorom-comsarea

greatwaytoshowthatyouareNOTthekind of girl/woman who cares aboutromantic conventions. A. and I oftendisagreed about what to watch. Hisinterests lay mostly with masculineclassics from the1980s,while I tended(and still tend) to want to watch filmswith female protagonists. Rather thanadmit that he didn’t want to waste twohours watching a woman’s interior life

unfold, he would tell me these films“lack structure.” Structure was aconstant topic. He built shelves, wrotescripts,anddressedforthecoldweatherwith a rigor and discipline that, whileinitially intriguing, came to feel likeliving under a Communist regime.Rules, rules, rules: nomixing navy andblack, no stacking books horizontally,pouryourbeverageintoatwenty-ounceMasonjar,andmakesuresomethingbighappensonthispage.

5 This is a reference to when I told

himthat,asachild,Iwashypnotizedbymyownbeauty.Thiswasthetimeinlifebefore I learned it wasn’t consideredappropriate by society at large to likeyourself.

6 Although he worked a job thatinvolved heavy lifting and hard labor,histruepassionwaswritingfiction,andaftermuchcajolingonmyparthegavemeoneofhisstoriestoread.Itwasthetwenty-page account of a young manvery much like himself trying, andfailing, to seduce an Asian girl who

worked at J. Crew in Soho. Althoughthe prose was unusual and funny, thestory sat with me like a bad meal. Ittook me about twenty-four hours torealize the issue: that I could feel, innearly every sentence, an essentialdisdainforwomankindthatwasneitherexaminednorexplained.Itwasthesamefeeling I had experienced after myinitial read of Philip Roth’s Goodbye,

Columbus in eighth grade: I love thisbook,butIdon’twanttomeetthisman.But, in this case, it was: This story is

okayanditsauthorhasalreadycomeinme.

7Thefirstweekwemet,Isleptathishouse every night. Time stopped in hisbedroom, which was windowless andoverly warm. Each daywe took a newsteptogether:flossedourteeth,sharedabagel,fellasleepwithouthavingsex.Headmittedtohavinganupsetstomach.Bythe time I emerged from his home onFriday morning, we had essentiallyperformed the first year of arelationship in five days. I got on the

plane to Los Angeles, unsure of whenwe’d see each other again. Iwas prettysureI’dseenhimcryalittlebitwhenhedroppedmeatthesubway.

8Perhaps,yes,inthatway.9Asanexperiment.Itwassimilarto

lookingatanemptyvaseorstaringoutawindow.

10Onthistrip,myfirstasaworkingwoman,IwasrentingahouseinthehillsaboveHollywood.Ithadbeenpitchedtome as “chic” and “within walkingdistance of chic things” but was small

and damp, windowless on three sides,andhadtheboxynondescriptfaçadeofa meth lab. Sandwiched between thehomesof a failedTVwriterwith a setofpitbullsandaqueer-theoryprofessorwho wore a bolo tie and collectedMuranoglass,Idecidedthattheamountof fear I felt alone in this house wasdirectlyproportionaltoallIwouldlearnfrom living there.And so I stayed, forfivemonths,callingitgrowth.OnenightI put on a nightgown, stepped onto theporch,lookedupatthemoon,andsaid,

“WhoamI?”11 I remember being so impressed

with this turnofphrase that I carefullyclockedwhoIhadalreadyshareditwithandwhoIcouldstilltryitouton.

13ParaphrasingFreud.13 I wanted a boyfriend. Any

boyfriend. This boyfriend, this angrylittle SteveMcQueen face, fitmy self-imagenicely,butlet’sfaceit,hewasintherightplaceattherighttime.Aboutamonthintotherelationship,itstartedtodawn on me that spending time with

him gave me an empty, fluish feeling,that he hated all my song choices, andsometimes Iwassobored that I startedargumentsjusttoexperiencetherushofalmost losing him. I spent an entirethree-hour car ride crying behind mysunglasses likemy thirty-yearmarriagewas ending. “I don’t know what else Ican try,” I wept. “I can’t do thisanymore.”“Can’torwon’t,”heholleredlike Stanley Kowalski, backing angrilyinto his least favorite parking spot andjerking the gear into park. Upstairs I

paced, cried; he cried, too; andwhen Itold himwe could try again, he turnedonhisPlayStation,content.

14AtonepointIaskedhimthis,andherespondedwithatrademarksilence.Iattemptedtoengageina“sext”session,starting off with “I want to fuck youabove the covers.” This seemed likesomethingAnaïsNinmightrequest.No,

shewouldsay.Leavethecoversoff.Herespondedwithtextsthatread“Iwanttofuck you with the air conditioner on”and “Iwant to fuck you after I setmy

alarmclock for8:45A.M.” I closedmy

eyes and tried to inhabit the fullsensuality of his words: the coolrecycledaironmyneck,theknowledgethat the alarm would sound just a bitbefore nine. It took about eleven ofthese texts for me to realize he wasdoing some kind of Dadaistperformanceartatmyexpense.

15 I desperately wanted this to be ametaphorforthewayslovestretchesus,changesus,butneverbetraysus.

16See? I’mjustachillgirlwritinga

chill-assemail,bro.17AtChristmaswehadtoenditfor

real this time.Afterall,he saidhewasincapable of love and only seekingsatisfaction. I, on the other hand, waspassionate and fully alive, electricity ineverylimb,a treegrowinginBrooklyn.I headed to his apartment the momenthe returned from his parents’ house,determined to make it easy, to cut thecord on his home turf. His landlord,Kathy, tended to siton the front stoop.Anelderlywomanwithamighty tattoo

ofapantheronherwide,fattyshoulder,she and her Yorkshire terriers keptwatch over the neighborhood. Buttonight Kathy was absent. Instead, ashrine of candles and flowers crowdedthe path to the door. Upstairs, he toldmethathethoughtoneofKathy’sdogshadprobablydied.Wecalledhertoseeif everything was okay, but Kathy’sdaughter answered—Kathy had slippedin the shower. It may have been herheart.Theyweren’t sure yet.Thewakewas tonight. So, my soon-to-be-ex-

boyfriend and I made our way acrossBrooklyntothefuneralhome,wherewepaid our respects to Kathy’s gray,powdered body, stiff in a red veloursweatsuit, a pack of menthols tuckedinto the front pocket. Later, on A.’scouch, we held hands while hewondered whether she’d felt pain andwhetherhisrentwouldgoup.Iclutchedhishand,ready:“Iloveyou,youknow.”Henoddedsolemnly:“Iknow.”

18 Fiveminutes after I pressed sendon this email, he called me. “Wait,

what?”“What did you think of it?” I asked.

“DoyoudisagreewithanythingIsaid?Imean,ifyoudojustsayso.”

“I stopped reading after you said thethingaboutjerkingoff.”

On themorningofNewYear’sDay,we had sex one last time. I didn’t fullyemergefromsleepashepushedhimselfagainst my backside. We were visitingmyfriends,adultfriends,outofthecity,and I could hear their children, awakesince6:00A.M., sliding in socks on the

hardwoodfloorandaskingfor things. Iwant children, I thought, as he fuckedmesilently.Myownchildren,someday.Then: I wonder if people fucked nearmewhen I was a child. I shuddered atthe thought. Before we could get backon the road, another guest rear-endedhiscar,andthefenderfelloff.Backinthe city, I kissed him goodbye, thentexted him a few minutes later “don’tcome over later, or ever.”We dowhatwecan.

19 Iwould argue this email is funny,

justnotinthemanneritwasintended.

Thereisacommonsuperstitionthat

“self-respect”isakindofcharmagainstsnakes,

somethingthatkeepsthosewhohaveitlockedinsome

unblightedEden,outofstrangebeds,

ambivalentconversations,andtroubleingeneral.Itdoesnotatall.Ithasnothingtodowith

thefaceofthings,butconcernsinsteadaseparatepeace,a

privatereconciliation.

—JOANDIDION,“OnSelf-Respect”1

Ialwaysrunintostrongwomenwhoarelookingforweakmento

dominatethem.

—ANDYWARHOL

I’VE ALWAYS BEEN ATTRACTED

to jerks. They range fromsassy weirdos who areultimatelyprettygoodguystosociopathic sex addicts, butthecommondenominatorisabad attitude upon firstmeetingandadesire to teachmealesson.Fellows: If you are rude to

me in a health-food store? I

will be intrigued by you. Ifyou ignore me in groupconversation?I’ll takenoteofthat, too. I especially like itwhen a guy starts out rude,explains that it’s a defensemechanism, and then turnsevenruderonceIgettoknowhim.As I passed thequarter-century mark of being aliveandenteredintoarelationshipwith a truly kind person, allthis changed. I now consider

myself in jerk recovery, sobeing around any of theaforementioned behaviorsisn’tyetsafeforme.My attraction to jerks

started early. I spent mypreadolescent summers in acottagebya lake,curledonaratty couch in my mom’smindthegapt-shirt,watchingmovies like Now and ThenandTheManintheMoon.IfItook anything away from

these talesofyoungdesire, itwas that if a guy really likedyouhewouldsprayyouwithawater gun and call younicknamesliketheBlob.Ifheshovedyouoffyourbikeandyour knees bled, it probablymeant he was going to kissyou by a reservoir soonenough.My earliest memory of

sexual arousal is watchingJackie Earle Haley as Kelly

Leak inBadNews Bears. Hewore a leather jacket, rode amotorcycle before the legalage, smoked, and treated hiselders with a kind ofdisrespect I had never seenexecutedbyanyoftheboysatQuaker school.Moreover, heogled adult women like aHefner acolyte. Later, I wasdrawn to images of angryattraction, I-want-you-despite-myself typestuff, thekindof

thing that Jane Eyre andRochester were up to. Youknow the way Holly Hunterlooks at William Hurt inBroadcastNews,likeshehateseverythinghestandsfor?Thatwas dreamy. Even 9½Weeksmade some terrible kind ofsense. All of this is naturalenough—whodoesn’t thrill ata little push-pull, a bit ofathleticconversation—butI’mthe first to admit I’ve often

takenittoofar.It’s common

wisdom that havinga good dad tends tomeanyou’llpickagoodman,and I have pretty much thenicestdadintheworld.Idon’tmeanniceinaneutered“yes,dear”way.Imeanniceinthathe has always respected myessential nature and offeredme an expert mix of spaceand support. He’s a firm but

benevolentleader.Hetalkstoadults like they’re juveniledelinquents and to kids likethey’readults. I’veoften triedtowrite a character based onhim, but it’s such a challengeto distill his essence. Iwasn’talways easy, and neither washe—after all, artists like tohole themselves up in theirstudiosfordaysandpitchfitsabout bad lighting—but thecareful, reliable attention of

thisman has been integral tomy sense of security. To thisday,thetruestfeelingofjoyIhave ever known is the dooropeningatafriend’shousetoreveal my father—in histweed overcoat—there torescue me from a bad playdate.Once, when I was five, I

was at an art opening talkingto a fabulous drunkenBritishlady. Itwasconsiderablypast

my bedtime, and the wholescenewasstartingtobummeout.IstoodnexttomyfriendZoe,who,atonlyfour,wasanembarrassingly juvenilecompanion. The British lady,trying to make conversation,asked Zoe and me what ourparents did if we were “badgirls.”“When I’m bad, I get a

time-out,”Zoesaid.“When I’m bad,” I

announced, “my father sticksaforkinmyvagina.”This is hard to share

without alarm bells sounding.We’re taught to listen to littlegirls, particularly when theysay things about beingsodomized with cutlery. Alsomy father makes sexuallyexplicit artwork so he’sprobablyalreadyon theFBI’sfork-in-vagina radar. It’s atestament to his good nature

that, after the British ladyrepeatedmy “hilarious” storytoagroupofadults,hesimplyscooped me up and said, “Ithinkit’ssomeone’sbedtime.”It’s hard to grasp what my

intentwashere—we’retalkingaboutachildwhowasfondofpretending a ghost wastouching her nonbreastsagainst her will—but I guessthemoralof this story is thatmy dad’s really nice, yet I’ve

always had an imaginationthat could grasp,maybe evenappreciate,thepunitive.

There is a theory not oftendiscussed—perhaps becauseI’mtheinventorofthetheory—that if your father isincrediblykind,youwillseekanopposite relationshipasan

actofrebellion.Nothing about my history

wouldimplythatI’ddigjerks.I went to my first Women’sAction Coalition meeting atage three. We, the daughtersof downtown rabble-rousers,satinabackroom,coloringinline drawings of Susan B.Anthony while our mothersplotted their nextdemonstration. I understoodthat feminism was a worthy

concept long before I wasaware of being female,listening to my mother andher friends discuss thechallenges of navigating themale-dominated art world.My feminist indoctrinationcontinuedatforward-thinkingprivate schools where genderinequalitywasasmuchatopicofstudyasalgebra,atall-girlscamp in Maine, and as Ilooked through my

grandmother’s wartime photoalbums (“Nurses did the realwork,” she always said).Andunderscoring it all was myfather’s insistence that mysisterandIweretheprettiest,smartest, and baddest bitchesin Gotham town, no matterhow many times we pissedourselves or cut our ownbangs with blunt kitchenscissors.

I don’t think I met a

Republican until I wasnineteen,whenIsharedanill-fated evening of lovemakingwith our campus’s residentconservative, who worepurple cowboy boots andhosted a radio show calledReal Talk with Jimbo. All Iknew when I stumbled homefroma party behind himwasthat he was sullen, thuggish,and a poor loser at poker.How that led to intercourse

was a study in the wayrevulsioncanquicklybecomedesire when mixed with theright muscle relaxants.Midintercourse on the moldydormrug,IlookedupintomyroommateSarah’spottedplantand noticed somethingdangling. I tried tomake outits shape, and then I realized—it was the condom. Mr.Face forRadio had flung theprophylactic into our tiny

palm tree, thinking Iwas toodumb,drunk, or eager to callhimonit.

“I think …? Thecondom’s…? In the tree?” Imutteredfeverishly.

“Oh,” he said, like he wasas shocked as I was. Hereached for it as if he wasgoing toput itbackon,but Iwas already up, stumblingtowardmy couch, whichwas

the closest

thing to agarment Icould find. Itold him heshouldprobably go,chucking his

hoodieandbootsoutthedoorwithhim.Thenextmorning,Isat in a shallowbath for halfan hour like someone in oneof those coming-of-agemovies.

He didn’t say hi to me oncampus the next day, and Ididn’t even know if I wantedhim to. He graduated inDecember, and with him sodid 86 percent of Oberlin’sRepublican population. Ichanneled my feelings ofshame into a shortexperimental film calledCondominaTree (a classic!)and determined that the nexttimeIwaspenetrateditwould

beamorerespectfulsituation.That’swhenImetGeoff.Geoffwas a senior, a fair-

haired meditator who oncecriedinmyparents’hammockbecause,hetoldme,“Youareforcing sex when I just wantto be heard.”He had his lowpoints.2Butforthemostpart,he nurtured and supportedme.Welovedeachotherinacalm, gentle, and equal way.Geoffwas not a jerk, but he

alsowasn’tforme.We broke up, as most

collegecouplesdo.Ispentthenextmonthbedridden,unableto stomach anything butmacand cheese. Even my patientfather grew tired of mycartoonish heartbreak. But atmy first postcollege job in adowntown restaurant, Imet adifferentkindofguy.Joaquinwas almost ten years olderthanme,borninPhiladelphia,

and possessed a swagger thatseemedunearned,consideringhe was wearing a FUCKINGFEDORA.Hisbodywaslongand lean, and he dressed likeMarlon Brando in Streetcar.Hewasmyoverlord,acynicalfoodiewhosefavoritemaximsincluded “It would suck tolive past forty-five.” Eventhoughhehadagirlfriend,weflirted. The flirting consistedof him questioning my

general intelligence andnoting my lack of spatialawareness and then winkingto let me know it was all ingoodfun.Onenightsomeonetookashitnotinthetoiletbutonthefloorinfrontofit.“I hope you know you’re

cleaningthatup,”hesaid.I didn’t do it, but I sort of

liked being told to. Joaquinwas absolutely impertinentand, despite my “why I

oughta!”fauxconsternation,Iwas melting. He was SnidelyWhiplash, and I was theinnocent girl tied to thetracks, but I didn’t wantDudleyDo-Righttocome.

We started emailing.Minewere long and overwrought,trying to showhimhowdarkmysenseofhumorwas(Icanmake an incest joke!) andhow much I knew aboutRoman Polanski. His were

brief, and I could read bothnothing and everything intothem. He never even signedhisname.OnthenightIquit,we met after work andsmoked some pot I hadhunted down specifically forthe occasion. I didn’t haverolling papers (because Ididn’t smoke pot!) so wewrapped it inapageofFinalCutProforDummies.WhenItried to kiss him, he toldme

he shouldn’t—not because hehad a girlfriend, but becausehewasalreadysleepingwithadifferent hostess. We wentout to a twenty-four-hourPakistani restaurant and,having been rejected, I washungry for the first time indays. We ate our naan insilence.Wemaintainedourversion

of a friendship until finally,thefollowingJune,wekissed

in the street outside therestaurant. Iwasdisappointedbyhowhardhislipswereandhowsilenthewasoncehehadanerection.Whatfollowed

was twoyearsofon-and-offambiguous sex hangouts,increasingly perverse in theirexecutionandoften involvingprescriptiondrugsI’dhoardedfrommyparents’variousoral

surgeries.He’d ignoreme formonths on end, duringwhichtimeI’d ride the subway in aberet imagining I saw himgettingonateverystop.Whenhe did invite me over, hishousewasasuckhole.IfIfellasleepthere,itwasoftennoonthe next day before I got outthedoor.InthestreetI’dblinkat the flat Brooklyn sunlight,coldtomybones.

This relationship

culminatedintheworsttriptoLosAngeleseverseenoutsideof a David Lynch film. WespentfourdaysintheChateauMarmont, where JohnBelushi’sghostmakes the tubrunfunnyandthey’remeantoyou if you ask for a spoon.Highlightsincludedhimnevertouchingmeonce,me fallingasleep wearing only a thigh-highbootthatbelongedtomymother, and his confession

that he didn’t think he knewhow to care about anotherperson.

As I gained some tractionin my creative pursuits, Ithought his respect for mewouldgrow,butallitdidwasprovidemewithmoremoneyto slip out of dinner withfriends and take a cab to hishouse. I hoped nobody askedme where I was going so Iwouldn’tbeforced to lie.We

hadsexoneortwotimesafterour LA excursion, but myheartwasn’t in it. Ifmyheartwaseveninitbefore.IfIwaswritingthis then,I

would have glamorized thewholestoryforyou—toldyouhow misunderstood Joaquinwas and how he was just assad, scared, and lonely as therest of us. I would havelaughedas I described all theweirdsexuallibertiesIlethim

take and his generalimmaturity (unassembled bedframeblockingthefrontdoor,cigar box full of cash,condoms in randompockets).Before entering Joaquin’shouse I always remindedmyselfthatthiswasn’texactlywhere Iwasmeant tobe,butpitstopsareokayontheroadof life, aren’t they? I thoughtof myself as some kind ofspy,undercoverasagirlwith

low self-esteem, bringingback detailed intelligencereports on the dark side forgirls with boyfriends wholooked like lesbians andwatched Friday Night Lightswith them while eatingtakeout.Theycouldhavetheirsupportive relationships andtypical little love stories. I’dbe Sid and Nancy–ing it up,refusingtosettleforthestatusquo.I’dbecool.

Ihadaluckylittlegirlhood.Itwasn’t always easy to liveinside my brain, but I had afamily that lovedme,andwedidn’t have to worry aboutmuch except what gallery togo toonSunday andwhetheror not my child psychologistwas helping with my sleepissues. Only when I got to

collegediditdawnonmethatmaybe my upbringing hadn’tbeen very “real.” One nightoutsidemyfreshmandorm,abunch of kids were smokingand shrieking with laughter,so I rushed outside in mypajamas, eager to join thefray.“What’sgoingon?”Iasked.“Oh,” said Gary Pralick,

who always wore a sweaterknitbyhisgreat-grandmother

(I later learned she was onlyseventy-nine). “Don’t youworry about it, Little LenafromSoho.”What a snarky jerk.

(Obviously, I later slept withhim.) I tried my best todismiss the comment, but itnaggedatme,crept induringthat nightly moment betweeneating three slices of pizzaandbeingasleep.WhatwasitthatIcouldn’tunderstandand

how could I understand it,shortofmovingtoawar-tornnation? I couldn’t escape thefeeling that Ihadexperiencesto gain, things to learn. Thatfeeling was the crux of mywhole relationship withJoaquin.Well, friends, learning

about the “world” is notpretending you’re a hookerwhile a guy from the part ofNew Jersey that’s near

Pennsylvania decides whichSteelyDanrecordtoputonat4:00 A.M. The secrets of lifearen’t being revealed whensomeone laughs at you forhaving studied creativewriting. There is noenlightenment to be gainedfrom letting yoursemiboyfriend’s bald friendtouch your thigh too close totheplacewhereitmeetsyourcrotch, but you let it happen

because you think you mightbe in love.Howelse can youexplain why you’ve spent somuch money getting to hishouse?ThefirstfewtimesJoaquin

and I had sex, it was quickanda littlesad.Theoverheadlights buzzed. He didn’t lookatme,andafterwardhedidn’tlinger. I wondered if it wassomehow my fault. Maybe Iwasadeadfish,uncreativein

the sack, paralyzed by mydesperationtoplease.MaybeIwasdestinedtolietherelikeaslab until I was too old forintercourse.Then, the night before

Thanksgiving, Imet him at abar in Queens. Wearingfishnetsandalittlegrayskirt-suit fromJ.C.Penney, Iwasdressed likeahookerdressedas an insurance broker. Butsomething about the outfit

inspiredhim,andhelookedatmewithanewkindofhungerthatdroveusbacktowardhishouse,wherehekissedmeonthecouch,determined,maybea little pissed. He guidedmeto the bed, where he turnedme onmy stomach. Alcohol,fear,andfascinationcloudmymemory,butIknowmytightswere balled up and placed inmy mouth. I didn’t knowwhere he was in the room at

certainpoints,untilIdid.Andhe spoke to me, unleashingstreams of the filthiest shit Ihad ever heard leave anotherhuman’smouth.Impressiveinits narrative intricacy, andhorrifyinginitspredilections.This, I decided to believe, isthe best game I’ve everplayed.Iwalkedout into thestreet

the next day bare legged andreeling, not sure whether I’d

beenruinedorawoken.But I got no closer to

enlightenment hiding in abodega down the block fromJoaquin’shouse,pretendingtobeatacoolparty“kindanearyour place.” He was busy.With his other girlfriend,who, he told me, was “verywellraisedandevenherdirtyunderwearsmellsclean.”Whydid I keep calling?Because Iwas waiting for his mind to

change,forhimtotalktomethewaymyfatherdoesortheway Geoff did, even in ourdarkest hour. Intrigued as Iwas by this new dynamic ofdisrespect,atmycoreIdidn’twanttobespokentolikethat.It made me feel silenced,lonely, and far away frommyself, a feeling that Ibelieve, next to extremenausea sans vomiting, is thedepthofhumanmisery.

Theendnevercomeswhenyou think it will. It’s alwaysten steps past the worstmoment, thenaweird turn tothe left. After a long post-California cooling-off period,JoaquinandIfellinloveforaweek. At least that’s what itfelt like. ItwasOctober, stillwarm, with a near-constantdrizzle. I had a new leatherblazer, bought with my firstpaycheck. With its silver

grommets and wide lapel, itmade every outfit feel like auniform from the future.Wemetfordrinks,andhehuggedme tightly. We talked aboutLos Angeles, how sad it hadgotten, and the fact that wewerebetteroffasfriends.Welingered, drink after drink,then at his house we agreedfriendscouldhaveintercourseiftheydidn’tkissatall,PrettyWoman style. The next

morning he rolled towardmeandnotaway.Hetextedafewhourslatertosayhe’denjoyedthe evening. It was like amiracle.Twodayslaterwemetfora

movie. I wore the jacketagain, and he bought me ahamburger—he is the onewho ended my vegetarianstreak, for which I will beforever grateful because Igrow strong on the blood of

animals. He walked close tome, and I realized it was thefirst time he’d takenownershipofmeinthestreet.Back in my bedroom at myhouse—myparentswereaway—we laughed and talked andreturned to kissing. This iswhat it could have been like.Thisiswhatithadneverbeenlike.AndsoIwasangry.Emboldened by my new

life as a woman with a

meaningful job and a goodjacket, I told Joaquin to fuckoff forever.Well, I told himviatheInternet.Afterthebestnight we had ever had, thefirstnighthe’dletmefeellikemyself, Iwrote him an emailsaying he had hurtme, takenadvantage of my affection,andmademefeeldisposable.Itoldhimthatwasn’tawayIwasinterestedinbeingtreatedand that I wouldn’t be

availableanylonger.AndthenI made myself sick to mystomach waiting for anapologythatnevercame.After sending that email, I

onlysleptinhisbedonemoretime,wearingafullsweatsuit.Babysteps.

WhenI’mplayingacharacter,I am never allowed to

explicitly state the takeawaymessage of the scenes I’mperforming—afterall,partofthe dramatic conflict is thatthe person I’m portrayingdoesn’t really know it yet. Solet me do it here: I thoughtthat I was smart enough,practical enough, to separatewhatJoaquinsaid IwasfromwhatIknewIwas.ThewayIsaw it, Iwas fully capable ofbeing treated with

indifference that bordered ondisdain while maintaining astrong sense of self-respect. Iobeyed his commands, surethat I could fulfill this rolewhile still protecting thesacredplaceinsideofmethatknew I deserved more.Different.Better.

But that isn’thowitworks.When someone shows youhow little you mean to themandyoukeepcomingbackfor

more,beforeyouknowityoustart tomean less toyourself.You are not made up ofcompartments! You are onewholeperson!Whatgets saidtoyougetssaidtoallofyou,ditto what gets done. Beingtreated like shit is not anamusing game or atransgressive intellectualexperiment. It’s somethingyou accept, condone, andlearn to believe you deserve.

This is so simple. But I triedso hard to make itcomplicated.I toldmyself I’d asked for

it. After all, Joaquin neversaid he’d break up with hisgirlfriend. He let me knowfrom the start that he was arebel and a tell-it-like-it-is-onator.Henevereventoldmehe’d call. But I also thinkwhenwe embark on intimaterelationships,wemakeabasic

human promise to be decent,to hold a flatteringmirror uptoeachother,toberespectfulasweexploreeachother.Asafriend recently complained tome of the lawyer she wasdating: “How could someonewho cares so much aboutsocial justice care so littleaboutmyfeelings?”Itoldherabout my belief in thispromise.Thatitisright,anditisreal.Joaquindidn’tkeepup

his endof thebargain.And Ididn’t learn anything aboutlife that I hadn’t learned inSoho.

1IthinkJoanandIaretalkingaboutslightly different sorts of self-respect.She’s referring to a general sense ofaccountability for one’s actions and afeeling that you’re being truthful withyourselfwhen you lay your head down

atnight.I’mmoretalkingaboutsex.Butalsowhatshesaid.

2• The time we took ecstasy and,right before it hit, he asked mewhat my thoughts on openrelationships were. Cut to twelvehours of sobbing, not the eight-hourorgasmmyfriendSophiehaddescribed.

•Thetimehemademedrivethreehours to his friend’s birthdayparty, then was too sociallyanxioustoenterit.

•Thetimeheinventedapurplecatthat lived in his cupboard andmade general mischief. Or wasthisahighpoint?

I’MANUNRELIABLENARRATOR.

Because I add an inventeddetail to almost every story Itellaboutmymother.Becausemy sister claims every

memorywe “share” has beenfabricatedbymetoimpressacrowd.BecauseIget“sick”alot. Because I use the samelow “duhhh” voice for everyguy I’ve ever known, exceptfor the put-off adult voice Iuse to imitate my dad. Butmostly because in anotheressayinthisbookIdescribeasexual encounter with amustachioed campusRepublican as the upsetting

but educational choice of agirlwhowasnewtosexwhen,in fact, it didn’t feel like achoiceatall.

I’vetoldthestorytomyselfindifferent variations—thereare a few versions of itrattling around in mymemory, even though the

nature of events is that theyonly happen once and in oneway. The day after, everydetailwascrisp(orascrispasanything canbewhen the actwas committed in a haze ofwarm beer, Xanax bits, andpoorly administered cocaine).Within weeks, it was amemory I turned away from,like the time I came aroundthe corner of the funeralhome and saw my grandpa

laid out in an open coffin inhisnavyuniform.The latest version is that I

remember the parts I canremember.Iwakeupintoit.Idon’t remember it starting,and then we are all over thecarpet, Barry and I, no cleargeography to the act. In thedusty half-light of a college-ownedapartmentIseeapale,flaccid penis coming towardmyfaceandthefeelingofair

and lips in places I didn’tknow were exposed. TherefrainIhearagainandagainin my head, a self-soothingmechanismofsorts,is:Thisiswhatgrown-upsdo.

In my life I’ve had twomomentswhenIfeltcool,andboth involved being new in

school. The first time was inseventh grade, when Iswitched from a QuakerschoolinManhattantoanartsschool in Brooklyn. AtQuaker school I had been avague irritant, the equivalentofamusical-theaterkid,onlyI couldn’t sing, just read theBarbra Streisand biographyandateprosciuttosandwiches,alone in my corner of thecafeteria, relishing solitude

like a divorcée at a sidewalkcaféinRome.Butatmynewschool, I was cool. My hairwas highlighted. I hadplatformshoes.Ihadadenimjacket and a novelty pin thatsaidwho lit the fuse on yourtampon?Boyshadotherboyscome up to me and tell methey liked me. I told oneChase Dixon, computerexpert with lesbian moms,that I just wasn’t ready to be

inarelationship.Peoplelovedmy poetry. But after a littlewhile, the sheen of newnessfaded, and Iwas, once again,just a B- or even C-levelmember of the classroomecology.ThesecondtimeIwascool

was when I transferredcolleges, fleeing a disastroussituation at a school tenblocks from my home to aliberal arts haven in the

cornfields of Ohio. I wasagain blond, again inpossession of a stylish jacket—thisoneasmartgreen-and-white-stripedpeacoatmadeinJapan—and I was showeredwith attention by peoplewhoalsoseemedtolikemypoetry.One of my first self-

defining acts, upon arrival,was to join the staff of TheGrape,apublicationthattookundue pride in being the

alternative newspaper at analternative college. I wroteporn reviews (“Anal Annieand the Willing Husbands isweird because the lead has alisp”),scathingindictmentsofFacebook culture (“StephanMarkowitz’s party journal ismeant tomake freshmenfeelalone”), and a hard-hittinginvestigative report on theflooding of the AfrikanHeritageHousedorm.Oneof

theeditorsatthepaper,Mike,intrigued me immediately, asix-foot-four senior withNapoleon Dynamite glassesbut the swaggerof a fratboyand the darkness of RyanGosling. He lived in RensonCottage, a campus-ownedVictorian famous for havingbeen thecollegehomeofLizPhair.Toward the beginning of

myGrape careerMike and I

dirty-danced at a party, hisknee wedged deep betweenmylegs,afactheseemednottorememberat thenextstaffmeeting. He ran The Grapewith an iron fist, verballyabusing underlings right andleft, but I passed muster andheofteninvitedmetositwithhiminthecafeteria,whereheand his tiny Jewish sidekick,Goldblatt, ate plates piledhigh with lo mein, veggie

burgers, and every kind ofdry, dry cake. Mike and Iwere engaged in a constantwar of words. It wasflirtatious.Weworkedhardtoimpress and even harder toseemlikewedidn’tcare.“I don’t think monogamy

can ever work,” he told meone day as we were meetingovercafeteriahashbrowns.“I don’t care. I’m not your

girlfriend,”Isaid.

“And thank God for that,toots.”I giggled. I was something

far cooler than a girlfriend. Iwas a reporter. A temptress.Asophomore.

Thatwinter, Iwenthome fora month with mono, andduring that time Mikechecked in with me often,

underthepretensethathewas“struggling, missing my Ateam over here” and gettingpulverized by our rival, TheOberlin Review. On the nightof my return, glands stillswollen, I wore a vintagewedding dress to dinner withhim and Goldblatt at thenicest restaurant in town.Mike smiled at me like wewere a real couple (a couplethat brought a tiny Jewish

sidekick everywhere wewent).A few weeks later Mike

came over to my room towatchStrawDogs. I told himhow disturbed I was by itsdepictionoffemalesexuality,of awomanwhohated beingcoveted and really wanted tobe taken advantage of, andthenhe layon topofmeandwekissedforfortyminutes.What followed was a

torturous affair that resultedin,bythenumbers:

Oneandahalfroundsofintercourse

Onesharedshower(myfirst)

Aboutsevenbrokenheartedpoemsthatdescribedtheway“ourbelliesslappedtogetherthatnight”

Oneveryunnecessary

pregnancytest

Andone time I showeduptoapartyhewashavingwitha red running nose andresidual mono symptoms,beggedhimtotalktomeinacorner, then fainted. I wascarried home by hisroommate Kyle, whoencouraged me to respectmyself.

When I was seven I learnedtheword“rape,”butIthoughtitwas“rabe.”Ipronounceditlike the playwright, not thebroccoli, and I used it withreckless abandon. Oneafternoon as I read on thecouch,my two-year-oldsistertoddled over to me, herballoon-printedpajamassaggy

inthebuttfromadirtydiaper.Oh, theinjusticeofhavingtolive with a child. Grace,wanting desperately to play,grabbed at my feet andankles. When that failed toelicit a reaction, shebegan toclimb me like a jungle gym,gigglingthatbabygiggle.“Mom! Papa!” I screamed.

“She’srabingme!She’srabingme!”

“What?” mymother asked,

desperatelytryingtokeepherlipsfromcurlingintoasmile.

“Graceisrabingme.”

Mike was the first person togodownonme,afterapartyto benefit Palestine, on mydorm room rug. I felt like Iwas being chewed on by achild that wasn’t mine. Thefirst timewehadsexwas the

second time I’d ever done it.He put on some Africanmusic,kissedmelikeitwasaboringjobgiventohimbyhisparole officer, and I clung tohim, figuring he’d let meknow if this wasn’t what sexwas supposed to be like.When he finally came, hemade little, scared-soundingnoises like a cat stuck in therain. I kept moving until hetoldmetostop.

Noni and I are at thenewsstand across fromGrace’spreschool,waitingforpickup. I am nine years oldand have the day off ofschool, which is my dream,but I haven’t used it well.Noniismynanny.SheisfromIreland and was in a bad caraccidentwhenshewassixteenthat made it so her jaw will

only open so far. Her hair iscrispyfromhairspray,andshewears leggings that show hertan calves.We are looking atmagazines and drinking icedteas. The man who owns thenewsstand looks at me amoment,andforsomereasonit sends a shiver down myspine.“Noni,” I whisper,

panicked.“Noni.”Sheremovesherheadfrom

herPeoplemagazineandleansdown tome. I know the realwordnow.

“What’sdoing?”“I think he’s trying to rape

me.”

I helped Mike and Goldblattbuyfinchesforaninstallationartprojectand,whentheygot

loose in the bathroom ofRenson Cottage, I used myexperience as an Audubonvolunteer to corral the birdsinto a darkened corner andgathertheminmyhands.Thefinch beat its wings, and Ithought how holding a smallbird is the closest anonsurgeon will come tofeelinganakedbeatingheart.Thebirdpeckedatmyhands,but I’m not squeamish, and I

shoved it back into the cage.Howmanygirlscandothat?

InMay,Mikegraduatedalongwithhiswholegangofmerrybandits: Goldblatt, Kyle (anexpert on Costa Ricanculture),andQuinn,atextilesstudent whose senior projectinvolvedcreatingbathingsuits

withholeswherethecrotchesshould have been. The onlyonewhowas left behindwasBarry. Barry would now beconsidered a super senior, adubious distinction given tothosewithonemoresemestertofinish.

Barry,AudreyandIagreed,was creepy. He had amustache that rode the linebetween ironic Williamsburgfashion and big-buck hunter,

andheworethekindofwhiteReeboks last seen in an ’80sexercise video. He workedpart-timeat the library, and Iwouldoftenseehimskulkingalong the aisles, shelvingbooks in thewrongplaces. Insocialsettings,hecommandedattentionwithhisaggressivelymasculine physicality and avoice that went Barry Whitelow. Therewas a story abouthim punching a girl in the

boobs at a party. He was aRepublican. All reasons toavoidhimandtowonderwhythey let him into the livingroom of Renson Cottage somuch.In his super-senior

semester, Barry seemed lost.With his friends gone, hisbrowhadsoftened.Youcouldsee him smoking cigarettesalone,kickingatthegroundinfrontofthestudentunionand

sitting inMike’s old place inthe computer lab like a dogwithoutanowner.Who’sthebigguynow?

There was a particularlyraucouspartyintheloftabovethe video store. I woreAudrey’s fancy wrap dress,

andwedrank twobeers eachbefore we left and split aXanax she still had from aflight to Boca with hergrandma. It hit me hard andfast, and by the time weshowedupIwaspossessedbya party spirit quite alien tome. Audrey, on the otherhand, becamedizzy and aftermuchdeliberationwenthome,making me promise to treather wrap dress with the

proper respect. I missed herkeenly for a moment, thensnorted a small amount ofcocaine off a key, beforekissing a freshman anddancing into the bathroomline, where I showed peoplehow easily Audrey’s wrapdress opened and explainedhow “bogus” the creativewritingdepartmentwas.

Allmyfriendsweregone.Ilooked for Audrey, even

thoughshe’d toldmeshewasleaving, and I’d also watchedhergo.

Finally,frombehind,IsawmyfriendJoey.Sweet,oafishJoey—DJ and snugglebunnyfullofMichiganpride.Therehewas, inhisMembersOnlyjacket, tall and warm andready to saveme. I snuck upbehind him and jumped onhisback.

When he turned around, it

wasn’tJoey.ItwasBarry.Uh-oh played in my head like aloser’s sound effect on aJapanesetalkshow.Uh-ohuh-ohuh-oh.“I haven’t seen you in a

while,”hesaid.“Well,wedon’tknoweach

other,” I told him. “I have topee.”

Barryleadsmetotheparkinglot. I tellhim to lookaway. Ipull down my tights to pee,and he jams a few of hisfingers inside me, like he’strying to plugmeup. I’mnotsurewhetherIcan’tstopitorIdon’twantto.Leaving the parking lot, I

seemy friend Fred.He spiesBarry leadingme by the armtoward my apartment(apparently I’ve told him

whereIlive),andhecallsoutmyname.Iignorehim.Whenthat doesn’t work, he grabsme. Barry disappears for aminute, so it’s just Fred andme.“Don’tdothis,”hesays.“Youdon’twanttowalkme

home,sojustleavemealone,”I slur, expressing some deephurtIdidn’tevenknowIhad.“Justleavemealone.”He shakes his head. What

canhedo?

NowBarry’sinmyplace.Now we’re on my floor,

doingallthethingsgrown-upsdo. I don’t know howwe gothere, but I refuse to believeit’sanaccident.Now he’s inside me, but

he’s only sort of hard. I look

onto the floor, by his palebent knee, and see he’s takenoffthecondom.DidItellhimto wear a condom? Thecondom came frommy first-aid kit. I knew where thatwas,hedidn’t,soImusthavecrawledforit.Achoice.Whydoeshethinkit’sokaytotakeitoff?I come to a little, realize

this isnotadream. I tellhimhehastoputthecondomback

on. He’s not hard, and nowhe’s going down on me, andhe’s pushing his dick in myface. It feels like a fingerwithoutbones.Imoan, as if to say, I like

this,somuch.Hecallsmebaby.Or says,

“Ohbaby,”whichisdifferent.“Do youwant tomakeme

come?”Iask.“Hunh?”heasks.“Do youwant tomakeme

come?” I ask again, and Iknow that if I make thesesounds and ask thesequestions, then it is, again, achoice.Nowwe’reacrosstheroom,

our bodies in a newformation.Itipmyheadbackasfarasitwillgo.Andup,inmy roommate’s tree, I seeanothercondom.Orthesamecondom.A condom that isn’tonhimandmaybeneverwas.

Now I am pulling myselfup messily like a just-bornfoal, throwing Barry and allhis clothes out the slidingdoorintotheparkinglot.He’sclutching his shirt, strugglingwith a boot. The winter airseems to soberhimup, and Ishutthedoorandwatchfrombehind the glass as he looksfor the direction home. Iwouldn’twanttorunintohimnow.Now I amhiding in the

kitchenette,waitingforhimtobegone.Now I wake up. My

roommateisn’thome.Later,Iwill learn she heard soundsfrom outside the door andwent upstairs to sleep with afriend rather than interruptme.Before sunrise, I diligently

enter the encounter into theWorddocumentIkeep,titled“Intimacy Database.” Barry.

Number Four. We fucked.69’d.Itwasterriblyaggressive.Onlyonce.Noonecame.

When Iwas young, I read anarticle about a ten-year-oldgirl who was raped by astranger on a dirt road. Nownearlyforty,sherecalledlyingdown in a gingham dress her

mother had sewn for her andmaking sounds of pleasure toprotect herself. It seemedterrifying and arousing andlikeagoodescapeplan.AndInever forgot this story, but Ididn’t remember until manydays after Barry fucked me.Fucked me so hard that thenextmorningIhadtosit inahot bath to soothe myself.ThenIremembered.

The day after Barry, Audreyand I meet up to dohomework in the computerlab. We are both still in ourpajamas, layers and layers toguard against the cold. In thebathroomwearewashingourhands, letting them linger inthe hot water, and I say, “Ihave to tell you something.”

We crawl up onto the ledgeabove the radiator, and wehuddle together, and Idescribe the events of thenight before, finishing with“I’m sorry about your wrapdress.”Audrey’s pale little face

goes blank. She clutches myhandand, inavoice reservedformomsinLifetimemovies,whispers,“Youwereraped.”Iburstoutlaughing.

That night I am Gchattingwith Mike. He lives in SanFrancisconow,worksatanadagency,anddatesagirlwithapillproblemandwhathecalls“a phat ass.” Her MyspacenameisRainbowmolly.

12:30AMme:fool

icalledyouMike:iknowi’vebeenhungoverhungoverme:metoo

12:31AMMike:REALLYme:igotsodrunkedup

Mike:niceivomitedonmyselfme:ewareyouok?Mike:yes

12:32AMihaven’tleftmyhouseme:ididsomethingso

retardedyouwilllaughatmeMike:tellme

12:33AMTELLMEme:iwenthomewithyouweirdfriendBarryMike:--------------------

hahaHAHAHAme:iknow

IdialMikeonmyhot-pinkflipphone,notsurewhetherIwant him to pick up or not.“Howweirdisthat?”“Well, Barry called me

today,saidhewokeupinthehallway of his dorm. Said hedeep-dickedsomegirl,buthehas no ideawho.”He laughs,

amucusyexhaustedlaugh.“Deep-dicked” will never

leaveme.Itwillstaywithmelongafterthestinginsideme,like rugburndeepwithinmybody, is gone. After I’veforgotten the taste of Barry’sbitterspitorthesoundofhimcursingthroughthethickglassofmy sliding door.Divorcedof meaning, it’s a set ofsoundsthatmeanshame.

The next week

my vagina stillhurts. When Iwalk,whenIsit.Ithought a hot bath themorning after would cure it,butit’sjustgettingworse.I’mhome on winter break,freezing except for this hotplacewherenothingwillsettledown,so Igo tomymother’sdoctor,theonewhodeliveredmy sister. Gently, sheexaminesmeandexplainsitis

getting better slowly. It’s likeascrapeonyourknee,ascabrubbingagainstjeans.“It must have been pretty

rough,” she says withoutjudgment.The next semester, after

Barry is gone, my friendMelodytellsmethatonceherfriend Julia woke up themorningaftersexwithBarry,and the wall was spatteredwith blood. Spattered, she

said,“likeacrimescene.”Buthewas nice, and he took herfor themorning-afterpillandnamed the baby they weren’thaving.Juliawasn’tmad.“Butyou should know,” she says,“thathe losthisvirginity toahookerinNewOrleans.”

What will I do with thisretroactive warning? Just sitonit,whatelsecanIdo.

Imakeavownottohavesexagainuntilit’swithsomeoneIlove. I wait six months, andthe next person I do it withbecomes my first seriousboyfriend, and though he issexually confused andextremely antisocial he treatsme like the eighthwonderofthe world and we are best

friends.Oneafternoon,lyinginbed

in a way that is onlyacceptableduringcollegeoradeep seasonal depression, Itell him about Barry. I cry,partiallyfromrememberingitand partially because I hatethe way I’m expressingmyself.He’sreallyhungupontrying to remember whetherhe ever saw Barry aroundcampus. I’m just angry that I

don’thavebetterwords.

Even in the nicest televisionwriters’ room, people say allkinds of terrible things.Confessions of the way wereally feel toward oursignificant others. Storiesfrom our childhoods that our

parents wish we hadforgotten.Judgmentsofotherpeople’sbodies.It’sallfodderfor A and B stories,motivations, throwawayjokes. I wonder how manylovedoneswatchTV lookingfor signs of their owndestruction.We laugh a lot, at things

that shouldn’t rightfully befunny—breakups, overdoses,parents explaining their

impending divorce to a littlekid with chicken pox. That’sthejoyofit.Oneafternoon,Ipitch a version of the Barrystory.Asexualencounterthatno one can classify properly.A condom winding up in apottedplantagainstthewillofthe girl being fucked. AnAudrey-esque “ambulancechaser”response.

Murray shakes his head. “Ijust don’t see rape being

funnyinanysituation.”“Yeah,” Bruce agrees. “It’s

atoughone.”“Butthat’sthething,”Isay.

“No one knows if it’s a rape.It’s,like,aconfusingsituationthat…”Itrailoff.“But I’m sorry that

happened toyou,” Jenni says.“Ihatethat.”

I tell Jackbyaccident.We’retalking on the phone aboutunprotected sex, how it isn’tgood for people with ourparticular temperament, ouranxiety like an incorrigibleweed.HeasksifI’vehadanysexthatwas“reallystressful,”and out the story comes,before I can even considerhowtoshareit.Jackisupset.Angry,thoughnotatme.I’m crying, even though I

don’t want to. It’s notcathartic,orhelpingmeprovemy point. I still make jokeafter joke, but my tears arebetraying me, making meappear clear about my painwhen I’m not. Jack is inBelgium.It’slatethere,he’ssotired, and I’d rather not behaving this conversation thisway.

“Itisn’tyourfault,”hetellsme, thinking it’s what I need

tohear.“There’snoversionofthiswhereit’syourfault.”I feel like there are fifty

ways it’s my fault. Ifantasized. I took the big pilland the small pill, stuffedmyself with substances tomake being out in the worldwith people my own age alittle bit easier. To lessen thespace between me andeveryoneelse.Iwashungrytobe seen.But I alsoknow that

atnomomentdidIconsenttobeing handled that way. Inevergavehimpermission tobe rough, to stick himselfinside me without a barrierbetweenus. Inevergavehimpermission.InmydeepestselfI know this, and theknowledge of it has kept mefromsinking.I curl up against the wall,

wishing I hadn’t told him. “Ilove you so much,” he says.

“I’msosorrythathappened.”Then his voice changes,

from pity to somethingsharper.

“I have to tell yousomething, and I hope you’llunderstand.”

“Yes?”Isqueak.“I can’twait to fuckyou. I

hope you know why I’msayingthat.Becausenothing’schanged. I’m planning howI’mgoingtodoit.”

“You’regoingtodoit?”“Alldifferentways.”Icryharder.“Youbetter.”Ihavetogoputonadenim

vest for a promotionalappearance at Levi’s Haus ofStrauss. I tell Jack I have tohang up now, and he moans“No” like I’m a babysitterwrenchinghimfromthearmsof his mother who is alldressed up for a party. He’ssleepy now. I can hear it.

Emotions are exhausting tohave.“Iloveyousomuch,”Itell

him,tearingupalloveragain.I hang up and go to the

mirror, prepared to seeeyeliner dripping down myface,tracksthroughmyblushandfoundation.I’minLA,sobring it on, universe: I canonlyexpecttogodownLohanstyle.ButI’msurprisedtofindthat my face is intact, dewy

even. Makeup is all where itoughttobe.I look all right. I look like

myself.

Ifyoucutapieceofguitarstring/I

wouldwearitlikeit’saweddingring.

—CARLYRAEJEPSEN

Heplaystheguitar,thisguy.Not

professionallybut,oh,it’snice.Yes,I’mseeinghimandhe’slaughingatme.He’s

sofunny.He’scominginApril.

—TERRY,mymom’spsychic

IHAVEUTTEREDTHEWORDS “Ilove you” to precisely fourmen,notincludingmyfather,uncle, and assorted platonicneurotics I go to the movieswith.The first was my college

boyfriend, whom I havetortured enough in the publicforum,soIwillnotrehashouraffairhere.Sufficeittosay,Itoldhimfirst, andhedidnotreciprocate. It took weeks of

cryingandbeggingforhimtoreplyinkind,andshortlyafterthathetookitback.Whenhefinally gave it again, thewordshadlosttheircharm.The second “I love you”

wasBen,areboundfromthatrelationship.Iknewhimfromcollege, where we had slepttogether a few times beforeheruineditallbygettingintoa freezingdorm shower, thenhurling himself, nude, upon

myunmadebed,screaming“IWANNA KNOW WHEREDA GOLD AT!” (He thenruined it further by ceasingcontactwithme.)Butcollegeended, and I became lonely,as one does, and for the firsttime in my life bored, andsoon I had maxed out mybrand-new card on a planeticket totheBayArea,wherehe now lived on a block thatwasreminiscentofthecredits

of Full House, with big baywindows and a poster of theslainMexican icon Selena onhis yellowed bedroom wall.We spent four days trekkingup and down hills, sitting ontrolleys with our handsclasped, having drinks withguys who worked in bikeshops,andcomingtogetherinsexual communion. Onemorning at breakfast, hisroommate announced, “You

two have sex like clockwork,onceinthemorningandonceat night. Just like a marriedcouple.”Atnightwesatonhisback

porchandate the raviolihe’dspentallafternoonmakingbyhand.Hehada lotof time tocook: his job, editing thenewsletterforanonprofitthatpromoted the global languageofEsperanto,was“flexible.”When he finally had to go

to work, I visited friends onTelegraph Hill, where wildparrots live and where theview has the kind of urbangrandeur that is incrediblysatisfying to yuppies. Thiswas before I had anyconception of the financialreality of my friends. “Oh,”I’d explain about a friendliving in a massive WestVillageloft,“Ithinkhemakestons of money at his

internship for Food NotBombs.”Itwasonlylater thatI realized these friends onTelegraph Hill, a filmmakerandapoet,werehouse-sittingand couldn’t actually afford amansion with a roof shower.At the time, I marveled atwhatSanFranciscorealestatecouldprovideforartists.Ifweworkedhardenough,BenandI couldmoveuphere,with amutt and a bookshelf and a

littleorangesmartcar.I cried when I had to go

home, giving him a mix thatincluded several obscurecoversof“ILeftMyHeartinSanFrancisco.”Through the winter I

dreamed of my new life outwest. Ben sent pictures ofpancakesandsunglassesfromthedollarstoreandofpartieswherehippiesparkedboatsintheirlivingroom.Newtattoos

of dollar signs andCommunist symbols. Help-wanted postings from sexshops and children’s literacyprograms.Hemailedmeatinof brownies with a note thatwasironicallysigned“platonicregardz,Ben.”I came back again on a

Friday afternoon, and hemetmeattheairport.WetooktheBART to his house,which issort of like the New York

subway system only you canapparently trust thepeopleofSan Francisco to respectupholstered seating. As wesat, smiling and satisfied, anold Chinese woman passedand hocked a loogie on hisshoe. “Oy, bitch!” he yelled.Surprising myself, I secretlysidedwithher.On Sunday, a homeless

man camouflaged as a bushjumpedoutatmeonthepier,

laughed when I screamed,then demanded money. Benseemed impressed with hisingenuity.Later,Benremovedthe Selena poster from thewall so he could snortAdderalloffherbreasts.Igota terrible cold and couldn’tfind anything resembling atissue in the apartment. Bothof our credit cards weredeclined at the health-foodstore.

Whereveryougo,thereyouare.The night he told me he

loved me, he was sloppydrunk. We were in hisbedroom,andIwasstraddlinghim in his desk chair,listening to a party windingdown in the living room,when he blurted it out. IdeclinedtoanswerhimuntilIwas beneath him in bed tenminuteslater.Hetoldmethat

“Iloveyou”duringsexdoesn’tcount. The next day we atetoo much In-N-Out Burger(we were both kind of fat,whichatthetimeseemedlikea revolution) and lay in bedbesideeachotherandIcried,ostensibly because I’d misshim when I left but trulybecauseIfeltdeadinside.I did love Ben, in a sense.

Because he cooked for me.Because he told me that my

body was beautiful, like aRenaissance painting,something I badly needed tohear. Because his stepmotherwasthesameageashim,andthat is really sad. But I alsodidn’t: Because his vanitydrove him to wear vintageshoes that gave him blisters.BecausehegavemeHPV.He called me terrible

names when I broke up withhimforaPuertoRicannamed

Joe with a tattoo that saidmom in Comic Sans.Admittedly, I didn’t handle ittoo well either when, severalmonths later, he moved inwithagirlwhotaughtspecial-needspreschool.Ididn’tutterthe words “I love you” againin a romantic context formore than two years. Joeturned out to consider blowjobs misogynistic andpretended his house had

caught fire just to get out ofplans.

The third “I love you”wassaid to Devon. I was nearlydoneshootingthefirstseasonofGirls,andIhadentertaineda few crushes throughout theduration of production. Onewas on our assistant propertymaster, a meek bespectacledfellow named Tom, who, Ieventually concluded, was alot stupider than he looked.

Next I set my sights on anactor with the face of aBritish soccer hooligan. Hetookme toabaronEleventhStreet,criedabouthisformerfiancée, tonguedmeagainstalamppost, then told me hedidn’twantarelationship.

It wasn’t just that thesecrushes made the days passquicker or satisfied someraging summer lust.On somedeeper level, theymade it all

feel lessadult. I’dbeen thrustinto a world of obligationsand responsibilities, budgetsand scrutiny. My creativeprocess had gone from beinglargely solitary to beingwitnessed by dozens of“adults”who Iwas surewerewaiting to shoutThis! This isthe reason we don’t hiretwenty-five-year-old girls!Romance was the best way Iknew to forget my

obligations, to obliterate theself and pretend to besomeoneelse.Devon appeared on the set

ofGirlswhile Iwasdirectingthe season finale. He was afriendof a friend,brought inas someadditionalmanpoweron a tough shoot day. Smalland puckish, with a meatyNeanderthal brow, he threwsandbags around withdeceptive ease and coiled

cables like an expert. Inoticed a piercing in thecartilage of his right ear (so’90s), and I liked thewayhisjeansnestledinthetopofhispristinely maintained workboots.Whenhesmileditwasa mean little smile thatrevealed a gap between histwo front teeth.After severalinteractions in which hequestioned my authority andpretended not to hear me

speaking, itwas clear hewasmytype.

WhenDevonarrived Iwasin the middle of a fulldissociative meltdown. Theanxiety that has followed methrough my life like a badfriend had reappeared with avengeanceandtakenabrand-new form. I felt like I wasoutside my own body,watching myself work. Ididn’t care if I succeeded or

failedbecauseIwasn’t totallysure I was alive. Betweenscenes I hid in the bathroomand prayed for the ability tocry, a sure sign I was real. Ididn’t know why this washappening. The cruel realityof anxiety is that you neverquite do. At the moments itshould logically strike, I amfit as a fiddle. On a lazyafternoon, I am seized by acold dread. In this moment I

had plenty to be anxiousabout: pressure, exposure, atenseargumentwithabelovedcolleague. But I had evenmoretobethankfulfor.YetIcouldn’tfeelanything.Threedayslaterheshowed

upatourwrapparty.HisarmswereasmusclyasaKendoll’sbutalsoassmall.Iignoredhispresence, mingling with mycast mates and drinking athimble or so of red wine

(which is enough to get mewasted). Eventually, sloshedand sure the evening held noother prospects, I sat downbeside him at the bar andannounced, “You’re rude andI think you have a crush onme.”

A few minutes ofunremarkable conversationpassed before he leaned inand loweredhis tone. “Here’swhat’s going to happen,” he

said. “I’m going to leave andwait on the corner. You’regoing to wait three minutes,then you’re going to leave.You’re not going to saygoodbye to anyone andwe’regoing to take a cab to myhouse.”Iwasstruckbythetidiness

of the plan. After months offrantic decision making, itwas such a relief to have itlaidoutforme.

I tried to kiss him on thewalk to the cab, and he heldmeoff.“Notyet,”hesaid.Inthe cab his credit card didn’twork, and I paid drunkenlyand showily. I followed himup the stairs to his fourth-floor walk-up. When heopened the door, he calledout: “Nina? Joanne? Emily?”Hisroommates,heexplained.As he turned the lights on, itbecameapparentwewereina

studio apartment. No girlslived here.We were alone. Ilaughedtoohard.

Before he would kiss me,he had to pack his bag for ajobthenextday.Iwatchedashecarefullyfilledabackpackwith tools, checked to makesure his power drill wascharged, and examined hiscall sheet for details. I likedthe careful obsessive way heprepared to do his job. It

reminded me of my fatherteaching me to wash dishes.Hisroomwaspaintedredanddidn’thaveawindow.Isatonthebedandwaited.

Afterwhatfeltlikemonths,he sat across from me, onefoot still on the floor, andlookedatmea longmoment,like he was preparing to eatsomething he wasn’t sure hewouldlike.Iwasn’toffended.Iwasn’t even sure Iwas real.

When we kissed it wasdizzying.Ifellback,unsureofwhere I was or what washappening,knowingonly thatthe part of me that had lefthad come back, and thereattachment was almostpainful,Wendy attempting tosewPeterPan’sshadowtohisbody. I was amazed by thefluidity of Devon’smovements, how slick it waswhen he reached for the

condom, reached for me,reachedfor the light tomakeitdark.When we had sex, he was

silent,andthat,alongwiththepitch black, created theimpression that I was beingpenetrated by a succubus ofsome kind. He felt oddly faraway, and when I asked forconfirmation of his name, hewould give none. The nextmorning I awoke with a

horriblefeelinghewascalledDave.

We spent the rest of theweektogether.I’dfinishworkand go straight to his house.Wewouldtalk—aboutmovieshe hated, books he was okaywith, and people he avoided.His misanthropic spirit wasapparentineverythinghesaidanddid.

“I like you,” I told him onthe third night, sitting

betweenhisknees,uppastmybedtime.

“Iknowyoudo,”hesaid.He was odd, certainly. He

kept his shower cap on theceiling on a pulley he hadrigged so he could lower itwhenever it was needed. Hehad only orange juice in hisfridge, and Hershey’schocolate“becausethat’swhatgirls like.” He kept matchesbyhistoiletforwhenheshit,

whichseemedbothpoliteandtragic due to the amount oftime he’d been spendingalone. He spoke of his high-school ex with the kind oflingering bitterness moreoften felt by husbands whohavebeenabandonedandlefttocareformultiplechildren.

After that week, I had togo.ToLA,towork.Hewasn’tanexcusetostay,eventhoughhe felt like one. He walked

me to the subway, and Iheaded to the airport, teary-eyed.Iwasmyselfagain,andIdidn’tlikeit.Therestofourrelationship

(five months) went swiftlydownhill. His critical natureproved suffocating—hehatedmyskirts,myfriends,andmywork.Hehatedrom-comsandjust plain coms. He hatedThai food and air-conditioning and “whiny”

memoirs. What had initiallyseemed like a deep well ofpain caused by unattainablewomen was actually a PhilipRothiandisdain for the fairersex. It’s become horribly andoffensivelypopulartosaythatsomeone is on the autismspectrum, so all I’ll say is hisinability tonoticewhenIwascryinghadtobesomekindofpathology.We spent torturous

weekends attempting to sharebrunchesandmoviedateslikepeoplewhokneweachother.But he wasn’t impressedenoughbyhowfunnymydadis, and I didn’t understandwhat was so cool about hisfriend Leo the puppeteer. Iattempted to break up withhim on no fewer than sevenoccasions, and each time hewould cry, beg, and showmore emotion than he ever

had during our silent sexualencounters or our morningsdrinkingteainbed.“Youcareabout me,” he’d tell me.“You’ve never felt like thisbefore.” And who was I toobject?I hauled Devon a lot of

places I shouldn’t have, in anattempttomakehimapartofmy life: dinner withgirlfriends,theChristmastreeat the Met, even a family

vacation to Germany. (Myfatheraskedmetoreconsider.I was so afraid on the planeheaded there that I took twoKlonopin and bought all newluggageonmylayover.)“You can’t draw blood

fromastone,”mymothertoldme—gently,consideringshe’dhadtotendtohimforalmostfive hours one afternoonwhile I sat in the hotel roomcontemplating my fate. If I

ended this, would I be aloneforever? Sure, he hated myskirts. Sure, he wrote fictionaboutwhatslutsthegirlswhoworkatJ.Creware.Butwhatoflove?

My parents fell in lovewhenthey were twenty-seven. Itwas1977,andtheybothlived

downtown and ran with thesame crowd of artists whowore Chinese slippers andplayed tennis ironically. Myfather framed pictures, andmymothertookthem,andsosheaskedhimtohelpher,andtherestishistory.“Tell me again about how

you met Mom,” I ask myfather.“Notifyou’rejustgoingto

write about it,” he says. But

ultimately he can’t resist—describinghowoddhersenseof humor was and howimpossibly dramatic herfriends were. “They justwalked around starting fightswithpeople.”

The story has everything:drama,jealousy,drunkenness,friendships ended, and catsinherited. He liked the wayshe dressed, a little mannish,and the way she carried

herself—same. She hadrevisedheroriginalopinionofhim,whichwasthathelookedjust like a mouse. They hadnocellphonessohadtomakeplans and keep them orwalkover to each other’s housesandringthebellandhopeforthe best. Sometimes he gotdrunk and made her angry.Sometimes she started fightsjust because she was hungry.Sometimes they went to

parties and watched eachother across smoky lofts,amazed. Despite differentgenetics and culturalaffiliations,theyhadidenticalcoloring,wereaboutthesameheight. Weighed the sameamount, too. Like long-lostsiblings. I love imaginingthem then, knowing nomorethan Ido, just that they likedthewayitfelttobetogether.

Devon didn’t fix thatdissociated feeling for good,and when it came back, itcame back harder. I hadbroken up with him on myseventhtry,andonetrydidn’tevencountbecauseallIcouldmusterwas“Iloveyou.”

“I know you do,” he said.Buthewaswrong.

Ilayinbedallday,rubbingmy feet together andwhispering, “You are real.Youarereal.Youare…”And when I emerged,

fifteenpounds lighterbut tooshakentoenjoyit,Ithought,Icould spend the next eightyears just getting to knowmyselfandthatwouldbefine.The idea of sex right nowsounds about as appealing asputtingalivelobsterupthere.

Then he appeared. Gaptoothed, Sculpey faced,glasses like a cartoon, soearnest I was suspicious, andso witty I was scared. I sawhim standing there, yellowcardigan and hunchedshoulders,and thought:Look,there is my friend. The nextmonths were a lesson in

opening up, letting go, beingkindandbrave.I have written

all sorts ofparagraphsrecounting thosemonths together: first kiss,firstMisterSoftee,firsttimeInoticed that hewon’t touch adoorknob without coveringhishandwithhissweatshirt.Ihave written sentences abouthow the first time we made

love it felt like dropping mykeyson the tableaftera longtrip, and about wearing hissneakersaswe ranacross theparktowardmyhouse,whichwouldsomedaybeourhouse.About the way he gatheredmeupafteralongterribledayandputmetobed.Aboutthefactthatheismyfamilynow.I wrote it down, found thewords that evoked the exactfeelingoftheedgeofthepark

at11:00P.M.onahotTuesdaywiththemanIwasstartingtolove. But surveying thosewords I realized they aremine. He is mine to protect.There is somuchI’veshared,and so much that’s beencrushed by the sharing. Inever mourned it, because itnevermattered.

I don’t love any of my oldboyfriends anymore. I’m notsure I ever did, and I’m notsure ifat the timeI thoughtIwas sure. My mother saysthat’s normal, that men areproud of every one of theirconquests, and women wishthey could forget it all. Shesays that’sanessentialgenderdifference, and I can’t say Idisprove her theory. Whatkeepsmefromfullrevulsion,

from wanting the sexualequivalentofanannulment,isthinking about what I gotfromeachonethatIstillholdontonow.My college boyfriend got

memoreintouchwithmyguthealth (both a blessing and acurse)andmademeasksomelarger questions about theuniverse that I had beenignoring in favor of buyingUSWeekly themoment it hit

thestandseveryWednesday.Ben taught me the term

“self-actualized,” and itbecame not just a favoritephrasebutagoal.

Devon made me a pencilcasewithabuilt-insharpener,lentmehiswatch,showedmehow to keep all my wiresfrom getting tangled, andchanged my iPhone alarmfrom marimba to timba sothat Iwake up happier,more

soothed.And now I come to him,

wholeandreadytobeknowndifferently. Life is long,people change, Iwould neverbe foolish enough to thinkotherwise. But no matterwhat,nothingcaneverbeasitwas. Everything has changedinawaythatsoundstriteandborderline offensive whenrecounted over coffee. I cannever be who I was. I can

simply watch her withsympathy, understanding, andsomemeasure of awe. Thereshe goes, backpack on,headedfor the subwayor theairport.Shedidherbestwithher eyeliner. She learned anewwordshewantstotryoutonyou.Sheisamblingalong.Sheislookingforit.

AS A CHILD I developed aterrible fear of being

anorexic.Thiswasbroughtonby an article I had read in ateen magazine, which wasaccompanied by someupsettingimagesofemaciatedgirls with hollow eyes andfolded hands. Anorexiasounded horrible: you werehungryandsadandbony,andyet every time you looked inthe mirror at your eighty-pound frame, you saw a fatgirl looking back at you. If

youtookittoofar,youhadtogo to a hospital, away fromyour parents. The articledescribed anorexia as anepidemicspreadingacrossthenation, like the flu or the E.coliyoucouldgetfromeatingaJackintheBoxhamburger.SoIsatatthekitchencounter,eatingmydinnerandhopingIwasn’t next. Over and over,my mother tried to explainthat you didn’t just become

anorexicovernight.Did I feel that instinct, to

stopeating?shewondered.No.Ireallylikedeating.And why wouldn’t I? My

diet, up to that point,consisted entirely of organichamburger patties, spinach-and-cheese ravioli (which Icalled grass ravioli), andpancakesmydadmadeintheshape ofmice or guns. Iwastold that eating, really eating,

was the only way to becomebigandstrongandsmart.Because I was little. So

little. Even though myfavorite foods were: Doritos.Steak. Sara Lee pound cake(preferably still half frozen).Stouffer’s French breadpepperoni pizzas, my Irishnanny’s shepherd’s pie, andhuge hunks of goose-liverpâté, eaten with my barehands as a snack.Mymother

denies having let me eat rawhamburger meat and drink acup of vinegar, but I knowthat both happened. I wantedtotasteitall.

When Iwas bornIwas very fat for ababy—elevenpounds (which

soundsthintomenow).Ihadthreechinsandastomachthatdrooped to one side of mystroller. I never crawled, just

rolled,anearlysignthatIwasgoing to be resistant to mostexercise and any sexualposition that didn’t allow meto relaxmy back. But bymythird birthday somethingbegan to change. My blackhair fell out and grew inblond.Mychinsmeltedaway.Iwalked into kindergarten asa tiny, tan little dreamboat. Ican remember spendingwhatmust have been hours, as a

kid, looking in the mirror,marvelingatthebeautyofmyownfeatures,thesharplineofmy hip, the downy hairs onmy legs, my soft goldenponytail. I still envymy owneight-year-old self, standingconfidently on a MexicobeachinaFrenchbikini,thenbreaking for nachos andCoke.Then the summer after

eighthgrade Igotmyperiod.

My dad and I were taking awalk in the country when Ifelt something ticklish onmyinner thigh. I lookeddown tosee a thin trail of bloodmaking its way toward myanklesock.“Papa?”Imurmured.Hiseyeswelledup.“Well,”

he said, “in Pygmy culturesyou’d have to start havingchildrenrightaboutnow.”He calledmymother,who

rushedhomefromhererrandswith a box of tampons and ameatballsub.

I soon gained thirtypounds. Starting highschool is hard enough

without all your favoritenightgowns becoming bellyshirts.ButhereIwas,aslipofathingsuddenlyshapedlikeagummy bear. I wasn’t obese,but a senior did tell me Ilooked “like a bowling ball

with a hat on.” According tomy mother, some of it washormonal.Someofitwastheresult of the medication thatwas keeping my obsessive-compulsivedisorderincheck.All of it was alien—andalienating.Thiswasthesameyearthat

I became a vegan. This wasinspiredby a loveofpuppiesandalsoacowwhowinkedatme on a family vacation to

Saint Vincent and theGrenadines. Rationally, Iknew the cow was probablyattemptingtoremoveaflyonitslidwithouttheaidofarms.But the wink, that seeminglyirrefutable sign of sentience,stirred something in me—afear of causing anothercreature pain, of notacknowledging theirsuffering.

I maintained

the position fornearly ten years,

occasionally lapsing intovegetarianism and beatingmyself up about it. When IwasseventeenyearsoldIevenhada vegandinnerparty thatwas chronicled in the stylesection of The New YorkTimes—headline:“ACrunchyMenu for a Youthful

Crowd!”—and catered by anow-defunct establishmentcalled the Veg-City Diner. Iworemy grandmother’sDior,insisted on shoelessness(leather was a no-no), andexplainedtothereporterthat,whileIdidn’tcaremuchaboutthe Iraq War, I was veryconcerned by our nation’scasual attitude toward bovinemurder.While my veganism began

as a deeply felt moralposition,itsoonmorphedintoa not-very-effective eatingdisorder.Ineverthoughtofitasadiet,but itwas away tolimit the vast world of foodthatIhadoncelovedsodearly—IhadthefeelingIcouldgomad if not given anyboundaries. I’d be like thatguywhodrank theoceanandstillwasn’tsatisfied.

I fell in love with Cathycomics one afternoon at mygrandmother’s house, flippingthroughtheHartfordCourant.They weren’t printed in TheNew York Times, ourhousehold’s newspaper ofchoice. So every week afterthatmygrandmothercarefullysnipped them out of her

newspaperandmailedthemtome, no note. I would savorthem after school over half abox of cookies, laboring tounderstand each joke. Cathyliked food and cats. Shecouldn’t resist a sale or acarbohydrate.Nomenseemedtocareforher.Icouldrelate.By the time I reached highschool, I no longer readCathy,butIdidactlikeher.Iam thinking particularly of a

showerItookwherethelowerhalf of my body was underthe running water and theupperhalfwaslaidoutonthebath mat, eating a loaf ofbread.1

Collegewasanorgyofsoyice cream, overstuffedburritos, and badmidwesternpizza inhaled at 3:00 A.M. Ididn’t think very much aboutmyweightorhowfoodmademefeelorthefactthatwhatI

ate might even be having animpact on how I looked.Myfriends and I seemed to berunning a codependentovereaters’network.

“You NEED andDESERVEthatbrownie.”

“Hey, are you going tofinishthatrisotto?”

When a friend of mymom’swhoIdidn’tknowverywell died, I ate a massivepanini, using grief

managementasmyexcuse.Ididn’tgetona scaleuntil

a year after I graduated. Imaintained the childlikeperspective that weighingyourself was something youonlydidatthedoctor’soffice—and if you were beingoffered a lollipop ascompensation.Occasionally I would walk

into the kitchen in myunderwear, stand sideways to

displaywhatIconsideredabs,and remark tomymother, “Ithink I’m losingweight.” Shewouldnodpolitelyandreturnto organizing the SondheimsectionofheriTuneslibrary.Atmyannualgynecological

exam, they stuck me on thescale.“IthinkI’maroundonehundred forty,” I told thenurse,whonoddedandsmiledas she inched the numbersupward. It clunked, and

thunked,untilfinallyitsettledat a hair below one hundredsixty.

“We’ll say one hundredfifty-nine,” she offeredcharitably.

One hundred fifty-nine?Onehundredfifty-nine!?Thiscouldn’t be right. This wasn’tme. This wasn’t my body.Thiswasamistake.

“I think your scale isbroken,” I toldher. “Itwasn’t

likethisathome.”OnmywayoutIcalledmy

friend Isabel, hot and tearful.“IthinkImighthaveathyroidproblem,” I cried. “Comeover?”

Isabel sat in my kitcheneating turkey from thepackage, listening patientlywhile I lay down on themarble countertop andmoaned. “I am so fat. I amjust growing and growing. I

am going to be too big to fitthrough the door of anyclubs.”“Wedon’tgotoanyclubs,”

shesaid.“But if we did, you would

havetocarrymeonadomedsilver tray, like a piece ofpork.” I grew defensiveagainst my own judgment.“And anyway, one hundredsixty pounds is not that big.It’s like thirty pounds bigger

thanmosttallmodels.”

So here Iwas, in thewaitingroom of my mother’snutritionist, Vinnie. After alltheseyears,shehadwon.A note about my parents:

theyhaveavarietyofholisticprofessionals on call. One ofmyearliestmemoriesisbeing

clutched tightly by mymother’spsychicDmitri,whosmelled of essential oils andwalked around our houseinvestigating “energies.” Hetold me I was going to livewell into my nineties while Iwas just trying to watchTGIF.

Vinnie was unintimidating—he spoke lovingly of theStaten Islandhomehe sharedwith his mother—but he

didn’t spareme the rodwhenexplaining that this weightgainwasn’t, infact, theresultofawaywardthyroid.No, it was a result of too

muchsugar.Ihad,Itoldhim,been eating eleven tangerinesaday.Notenoughhealthyfat.Mild anemia. Generalovereating.Hegavemesomegreat basic principles (eatprotein, avoid sugar, havebreakfast), and he made it

clear that every time I ate acookieorahunkofbaguetteIwas filling my body withunusablecalories,unnecessaryinflammation jamming mygears.He told Isabel, who also

wanted a tune-up, that themost digestible alcohol waschampagne and that there’snothing wrong with eating alot of olive oil. To my mindIsabel didn’t need his help,

considering she once losttwentypoundseatinganentireangel food cake per day andnothingelse,butIwasgladtohave a comrade-in-arms. AtVinnie’s urging, I began tokeep track of what Iconsumed (down to thealmond)inaniPhoneappandlostnearlytwentypoundsinafewmonths.Isatatmytempjob, my snacks for the daylined up on the desk in front

of me, waiting for themoment I could add them tomy log. I both dreaded andcherished the last bite of theday(usuallyanotheralmond).I couldn’t see the differenceinmybody,butmyscale,andmymother,assuredmeIwasshrinking.

Everypound lostmademegiddy,butat the same timeavoice inside me screamed,Who is this lady you’ve

become? You are a potbelliedriotgirl!Whyareyoupluggingyour caloric intake into yoursmartphone!?What followed was a year

of yo-yo dieting. Hence, thisjournalentryfromtheendof2009: I started to considerdietingandweightforthefirsttime, going from 152 poundsto 145 pounds to 160 poundsto142pounds.Now,asIwritethis,I’mabout148poundsand

my goal is to reach 139 byFebruary (but more on thatlater).Throughout much of that

year, I was the world’s leastsuccessfuloccasionalbulimic.I understood the binging partoftheequationfairlywell,butafterstuffingmyfacewithallthe readily available cookiesand soy cheese I would driftintoastuporandforgettotryand vomit. When I finally

came to, all I could summonwere dry heaves and a stringoftheceleryIatenineortenhours ago, during a morehopeful time.My facepuffy,my stomach aching, I’d fallasleep like a flu-y baby andawake the nextmorningwitha vague awareness thatsomething terrible had gonedown between the hours ofeleven thirty and one. Oncemy father noticed a

constellation of brokencapillaries around my eyesand asked me gently, “Whatthe fuck did you do to yourface?”

“I cried,” I told him. “Alot.”

Another time I announcedmyintentiontopukeupaboxof pralines tomy sister, whothen banged on the lockedbathroom door crying andscreaming while I labored

overthetoilet.“Itdidn’tevenwork,” I told her, stalkingbackintomyroom.

Afriendonce toldme thatwhen you’ve been in AA,drinking is never fun again.And that’s how I feel abouthaving seen a nutritionist—Iwill never again approachfood in an unbridled, guilt-freeway.Andthat’sokay,butI think of those college yearsas the time before I was

expelledfromEden.

Whatfollowsareentriesfroma2010journalchroniclingmyattempts to lose weight. Thishas been, up until now, themost secret and humiliatingdocument on my computer,keptmorehiddenthanmylistof passwords ormy index of

those I have encounteredsexually.

SATURDAY,AUGUST21,2010

Breakfast,11am:

twopiecesofglutenfreetoast(100calorieseach)w/flaxoil(120calories)

¼greekyogurt(35calories)peach(80calories)

lunch/snack,1:30p.m.:

1oz.salami(110calories)celerysticks(??)

Afternoonsnack,3:30p.m.:

Mesasunrisecereal(110calories)Ricedream(110calories)½greekyogurt(25calories)w/8pecans(104calories)8driedcherries(30calories)

Dinner,8:30pm:

Steamedzucchini(nocalories?)Approx6ouncessteak(notsureofcalories)Tomatoes(60calories?)Arugula(3calories?)Newman’sOwnDressing(45calories)

Dessert:

Smallbitedarkchocolate(30calories)SwissMissFat-FreeHotCocoa(50calories)

4am:

1biteofpeach(10calories)spoonfulchunkyalmondbutter(110

calories)celery(0caloriesIthink)

totalcaloricintake:approx:1,560

Notes:couldhavehadmoreveggies.IalsorecognizeIlookbetterthaneverandthatI’mradiatingakindofgood

healthIhaven’tbefore.Also,workingwithmypsychology/foodguilt—theneedtobeperfectiswhatobsessesandthenderailsme,whentherealgoalistoenjoyfoodandlistentomybody.Thatneversteersmewrong.Thisjournalisgoingtohelpalot.Iwilltryandstickto1500caloriesadayorlessandnotweigh

myselfnextuntilSeptember22nd.

SUNDAY,AUGUST22,2010

Breakfast:12:00pm

MesaSunrisecereal(120calories)RiceDream(110

calories)2pecans(26calories)2driedcherries(20calories?)

Lunch:1:30pm

2scrambledeggswithsalsa(150calories)Arugula(3–7calories)

Snack:3:45pm

¼greenapple(45calories)1spoonfulchunkyalmondbutter(110calories)5driedcherries(30calories?)

Snack:6:40pm

²⁄³bagofpeeledfruitsnack—driedfruits,cashews,walnuts

(200calories)

Dinner:9pm

2¼cornchipswithtwoscoopsguacamole(100calories?)Choppedsaladofbeets,carrots,jicama,spinach,jalapeñodressing(150calories?)

Friedfishtacow/corntortilla(300calories?)1pieceoffriedplantain(50calories?)

totalcaloricintake:approx1,411

Notes:Thisjournalisaplacetorecordalltheconflicting,intense

emotionsIhaveaboutfoodandtofreemyselfofthem.It’saboutmorethancalories.IdecidedIwillweighmyselfeverySunday,soIknowI’montherighttrack.TodayIweighed149.5onmymom’sscale(aheavierscale).I’mnotgoingtoobsessaboutweight,butapositivegoalwouldbetobe139poundsbythe

November12thpremiereofTinyFurniture.Iamgoingtomakestridestomakethathappen(takingmysupplements,listeningtomybody,avoidinggluten,refinedsugar,booze,alotofredmeatandfats,goingtoPhysique57classeventhoughthewomenthereareallengagedtobemarriedandmean).

MONDAY,AUGUST23RD,2010

1am

SmoothMovelaxativetea

Latenightsnack:4:45am

Driedfruit(100calories)

Breakfast:10:15am

1Raweorawchocolatecookie—thesearelikeoreosbutraw(100calories)2fig/date/almondsnowballs(180calories)1tbspFlaxOil(120calories)1pieceTulu’sgluten-freeoatbread(120

calories?)2piecesleftoverChinesechicken(100calories?)

Lunch:1:30pm,WildGinger

½bowlvegetarianhotandsoursoup(100calories?)Saladw/silkentofuandcarrot-ginger

dressing(200calories?)SteamedChineseBroccoli(25calories?)Greentea(0calories)

Coffee:3pm

Coffeewith½cupsoymilkandtinybitofmaplesyrup(50calories?)

Dinner:6:30pm,StripHouse

6-oz.filetmignon(348calories)½servingcreamedspinach(100calories?)EDITOR’SNOTE:yeahrighttwobitesfriedpotato(50calories?)1bitetoastw/bonemarrow(60calories?)

onebiteescargot,¼snail(43calories?)

drinks:

2seltzers

totalcaloricintake:approx1,576

Notes:Ihaddiarrheatoday!Maybeit’sfromtheSmoothMovetea,whichI

amoddlyaddictedto.Ittasteslikechocolate!

TUESDAY,AUGUST24,2010

Breakfast:10:30a.m.

2sugarycherriesfromatart(20calories?)1pieceTulu’sglutenfreehoneyoatbread

(120calories)w/almondbutter(100calories)seltzer

Lunch:3p.m.

Fruitsaladw/kiwi,orange,apple,grape,pineapple,strawberry(110calories)

Cottagecheese(100calories)Tea

Dinner:8:30p.m.

Soycoconutpuddingwithberrysauce(300calories?)⅓piececornbreadw.misobutter(100calories?)

LateNightSnack:12:30a.m.

¼piececornbreadwithmisobutter(150calories?)¼cupgingerale(93calories?)

totalcaloricintake:approx1,093

Notes:Ihaveabadfever

(103)andgeneralfluishnesstoday.However,IdofeellikeI’vehitastridewithmyeatingandI’mabout100%healthiermentallyaboutitthanIhavebeeninalongtime.Notswearingoffofanything,orbeingextreme.Therefore,nodesiretobingeorgointoacrazyfoodzone.It’satotallynewsensation!

WEDNESDAYAUGUST25TH,2010

Breakfast:11am

2sipsgingerale(10calories?)2cupsgreentea1bitesoygreenteapudding(20calories?)Crispybrownricecereal(100calories?)¾cupofRiceDream

(90calories)

Lunch:2pm

3sipsgingerale(20calories?)¾cupbrownricewithhijiki,whitebeans,andgreens(300calories?)creamytahinidressing(80calories?)

¼piecekabochasquash(15calories?)

Snack:6pm

¼peach(30calories?)1cupSoyDeliciouschocolateicecream(250calories)

Dinner:10pm

Chickensoupwith

ricenoodles(400calories?)¼cupcottagecheesew/pineapple(120calories)3raspberries(4calories)cranwater(20calories?)

totalcaloricintake:approx1,459calories

Notes:IFEELLIKETOTALSHIT.Astomachthingandgeneralfluishness.Noappetite.ButIamstilldoinggreatwithmyfoodattitude!Shouldhavehadmoreveggiesandlesssugar/carbs.

THURSDAYAUGUST26,2010

Latenightsnack:4am

¾containerofFage2%GreekYogurt(110calories)raspberries(20calories)

Breakfast:6:30am

Glutenfreehoneyoattoast(120calories)w/almondbutter

(100calories)

9:30am

30raspberries(35calories?)

1:45pm

weirdorangejuice/trackingliquidforcatscan(100calories?)

3pm

5Raisinets(38calories)

5:30pm

¼turkeyonryebreadw/lettuceandmustard(300calories?)2bottlesTeasgreentea

9pm

¼smallcontainersaagpaneerandwhiterice(380calories?)½containerchocolatesoydeliciousicecream(230calories)greenteaseltzer

Totalcaloricintake:approx1,433

Notes:SpentdayinER.Diagnosedwithacutecolitis.(Notthechronickind!Maybefromthelaxativetea?)LotstosayaboutthatandI’lltypeitwhennotonjuryduty.BywhichImeanPercocet.ImeantPercocetandtyped“juryduty.”IthinkI

overestimatemycaloriessometimes.

FRIDAY,AUGUST27,2010

Breakfast:10:30am

2bitesIndianRasMalai(100calories?)¾gluten-freeBBQchickenpizzaw/addedarugula(320

calories)

4pm

restofIndianRasMalai(300calories?)

8pm

½unripepeach(30calories?)1pieceglutenfreehoneyoattoast(120calories)

¼bowlriceinsoupw/mushroomandumeboshi(250calories?)

12:30am

¼veganchocolatechipcookie(65calories)2scoopsvegancookiedough(280calories)

¼cupricedream(60calories)glutenfreecheerios(70calories)

totalcaloricintake:approx1,595

Notes:Iamonantibiotics,noboozetillIfinishonFriday,September10.RanintoElaineandshe

noticedI’dlostweight.ShethoughtitwasillnessbutIknowthetruthofthematter.ThisfeelslikethehealthiestandmostsustainableeatingpatternI’veeverbeenin!

SATURDAY,AUGUST28,2010

11am

2¼rollsofyubaskin(150calories?)¼cupglutenfreecereal(70calories)¼cupricedream(60calories)

12:30pm

¼GrannySmithapple(40calories)

1pm

¼roastturkeyonryew/lettuceandmustard(250calories?)

4:30pm

largealmondbutter,ricemilk,figsmoothie(500calories?)

9:30pm

watercresssalad

w/crispysoybeans(60calories?)cabbagesalad(20calories?)broccoli(40calories?)steamedgreens(20calories?)creamytahinidressing(90calories?)sesamedressing(40calories?)

2piecesprosciutto(70calories)

totalcaloricintake:approx1,410

Notes:Ididsomecocainethisevening!JoaquinshowedupatthebarandIsaidIcouldn’tdrinksohewaslike“dothiscocaine.”Justabump.

ThenwewenttoanotherbarforhamburgersandIwasangryandgotinacab.ButI’mstillfeelinggoodaboutfood—notemotional—andwasgettingmegacomplimentsonmylookatthebar.Stillcomingupshortinthefruits/veggiesarena.TomorrowI’llstartthedaywithareasonableservingofyogurtand

somedates,thenhavealunchanddinnerbothfulltoburstingwithveggies—that’swhatthisbodyneeds.

SUNDAY,AUGUST29,2010

2am

azukibeanmousse(250

calories)

12pm

applepie(450calories)bio-k(45calories)maplesyrup(25calories)

1:30pm

applewaldorfsalad

(350calories)¼roastchickenbreast(150calories)biteofcornbread(50calories)

4pm

smallpieceofmilkchocolate(50calories)carrot/orangejuice(120calories)

5pm

smalltastid(80calories)largetastid(150calories)

6pm

abunchoflemoncake(300calories)

7pm

whitewine(100

calories)

8pm

steak,veggies(300calories)

10pm

morelemoncake(300calories)evenmorelemoncake(300calories)cerealandalmond

milk(250calories)banana(120calories)apple(85calories)¼jarpeanutbutter(700calories)

totalcaloricintake:4,225calories

Notes:Iwenttotallynutsandateallthethings.

1Breadtendstobevegan.

MY MOTHER INVENTED theselfie.Sure, there were self-

portraits before her, but sheperfected the art of thevulnerable candid with anunclear purpose. She used aNikon, a film camera with atimer,andshewouldsetitup,stand against the cherry-printwallpaper in her bedroom,andpose.It was the early seventies.

She had moved to the cityarmed with nothing but thiscamera and a desire tomake

work. She had left herboyfriend behind, a kindlybalding carpenter fromRoscoe,NewYork,whoworeaflannelnightgownandknewhow to tap trees for syrup. Ihappen to know he’s kindlybecause we visited him onceand sat around his tabledrinking lemonade, and hedidn’t seem mad that she’dleft him, just happy for hersuccesses and generally

pleasedaboutmyexistence.WhenshegottoNewYork

she moved into the loft I’dgrowupin,alittletoobigfora single girl and a little toosmall for a family. She tookodd jobs to pay the rent—styling food and sellingbilliard balls and once, justonce, taking a JapanesebusinessmanonatourofNewYork City nightlife. (Auniquequalityofmymother’s

is that when she’suncomfortable she expressesher purest and most deeplyfelt rage, so I’m guessing hehadabadtime.)In the images she took of

herself in the loft, she wasonly sometimes dressed, in abaggysweaterorbeltedsafarishorts. But most of the timeshe was naked. At leastpartially. Jeans and no shirt,her pale shoulders hunched,

herkneesknocking.Around-collaredblouseandthickwoolsocks but no pants, theshadowy place between herasscheeks revealedwhen shepulledkneestochin.Over time, her hair

changed: long ironed sheetsbecame an ill-advised perm.Abob,theendsstillwetfromthe shower. Her armpitstendedtobeunshaven,alookI regret knowing that my

father enjoys. Sometimes sheadded a potted plant to theimage for texture, like astudent filmmaker creating amakeshiftsetofVietnam.Onoccasionsheturnedthe

lens toward themirror soherface was obscured by thechunky black camera body,pullingfocustoherdryheart-shaped lips and rabbit teeth(the same ones I have, thesame ones she has since

capped). But mostly, the eyeis drawn to her nakedness.Legs spread defiantly. Thiswasn’t officially her art, butshewascommitted.The fact that she was

shooting on actual film—andnot an iPhone or a Polaroidbought atUrbanOutfitters, àla the selfies of today—lentan appealing seriousness toher fascination with herself.Something about the

intentionality of themedium.After all, she had to load thecamera,printthefilmbyhandin her darkroom, then hangthe imageson the line todry.WhenherroommateJimmy,amore seasoned photographer,wasn’taroundtoaskforhelp,she called theKodak hotline,which was manned by onesingle put-upon gentleman(“It’s boiling hot in mydarkroom and I’ve been

putting ice cubes in mydeveloper.Doyouthinkthat’sokay?”). Embarrassed by thefrequency of her calls, shewould affect extreme accentsto mask her voice. Imaginegoingtoallthateffort,justtofindoutwhatyourbushlookslike when paired with lime-green rain boots and shiningaviators.Thiswasn’tassimpleas swinging your iPhonearound and pushing your tits

together.Thistookwork.Mymother is slim.A long

torso, loose arms, and acollarbone sheer as a rockface.But thecameraclungtoher imperfections—the rippleof fat below her butt, thesharp knob of her knee, themassive birthmark on herforearmthatshehadremovedas a fortieth-birthday presentto herself. I think of herdeveloping these images,

sloshing them around in thephoto solution with a pair ofsalad tongs. Waiting, as theyblushedgray,thenappearedinfull contrast, to see what shereallylookedlike.She convinced her little

sister to pose, too. Her littlesister: a blond med studentwith the kind of bodydesigned to sprawl in wetsand. This feather-haired,horseback-riding beauty

queen was suddenly sullenwhen her shirt was off. Shy.The camera, that greatequalizer.My mother understood,

implicitly,thepowerofit.Seethese hips, these teeth, theseeyebrows,thesestockingsthatbunch and sag at the ankles?They’re worth capturing,holding on to forever. I’llneverbethisyoungagain.Orthis lonely. Or this hairy.

Come one, come all, to myprivateshow.When my father appeared

on the scene there would bepicturesofhim,too,sittinginthe bathtub, holding a fryingpan up as a shield. Asdisconcerting as it is to seeyour father make a face thatcan only be described as“coquettish,” it’s the imagesof my mother that fascinateme. The flash of fear in her

eye—or is it longing? Thefeverish need to reveal whoshe really is, as much toherselfasanybody.

IgetnakedonTV.Alot.It started in college.

Pressed for actors whoembodied the spirit of sexualdespair I was looking to

cultivate, I cast myself.Unawarehowsexsceneswerehandled by the pros, I didn’tpurchase nudity covers orenforce a “closed set.” Isimply pulled my shirt overmyheadanddovein.“Do you want me to

actually suck your nipple?”Jeff, my confused scenepartner,asked.Later, looking at the

footage in the Oberlinmedia

lab, I didn’t feel shy. I didn’tlove what I saw, but I didn’thate it either. My body wassimplyatooltotell thestory.It was hardly me at all, butrather a granny-panty-cladprop I had judiciouslyemployed. I didn’t lookelegant, beautiful, or skilled.ThiswassexasIknewit.Exhibitionism wasn’t new

to me. I’d always had aninterestinnudity,oneIwould

describe asmore sociologicalthan sexual. Who got to benaked,andwhy?Thesummerbetween fourth and fifthgrades, I remember ridingbikes with my best friendWilly around the lake inConnecticut where ourfamilies congregated for thesummer each year—thinkDirtyDancing, butwithmoreknown pedophiles in theneighborhood—when I

became keenly aware that Iwas wearing a shirt and hewasnot.Thatdidn’tseemfair.After all, my mother hadrecently told me it wastechnicallylegalforwomentowalk through Manhattanshirtless, even if very fewexercised the right. Why didWillygettoenjoythesummerbreezeonhischest?Whatwassobadaboutexposingmine?Istopped, removed my t-shirt,

andwepedaledoninsilence.

In2010 I got theopportunityto make a television show.The network told me theywanted to see my age group,the concerns of my friendsandenemies,ingraphicdetail—and they didn’t seem to bebluffing. If I was going towrite honestly about twenty-

something life, sex was atopicI’dhavetoaddresshead-on. And the sex in televisionandmovieshadalwaysrubbedme the wrong way.Everything I saw as a child,from90210toTheBridgesofMadison County, had led meto believe that sex was acringey, warmly lit eventwhere two smooth-skinned,gooey-eyed losers achievedmutual orgasm by breathing

on each other’s faces. Thefirst time I got naked with aguy,grotesqueasitwas,Iwasjust so relieved he wasn’tdeeply inhaling my naturalscentor runninghishandsupmy torso to the strains ofChrisIsaak.

Besides being gross, theseimages of sex can also bedestructive.Betweenpornandstudioromanticcomedies,weget the message

loud and clear thatwe are doing it allwrong. Ourbedsheets aren’tright. Our movesaren’t right. Ourbodiesaren’tright.

Sowhen Iwas offered thechance to make the show, Idid what I’d been doing foralmost fiveyears in farmore“independent” productions: Istrippeddownandwentforit.

People are always curious,so I’m going to tell youwhatit’sliketolieinbedinaroomfullofonlookersandsimulateintercoursewithsomeoneyoumay or may not know.Professional actors alwaysgivecannedanswers like “It’sjustajob, it’ssomechanical”or “He was so fun to workwith,hefeltlikemybrother,”but since no one has everaccused me of being

professional, or of being anactor—Iwillbehonest.It’s fuckingweird.Yes, it’s

just a job, but most people’sjobsdon’tconsistofslammingyour vagina against theflaccid, nylon-wrapped penisof a guy wearing massiveamounts of foundation toconceal his assne. I’vesuffered humiliations such askneeing my scene partner inthe balls, realizing under the

bright studio lights that thereis a thick black hair growingoutofmynipple,andfindinga lubricated prop condomstuckbetweenmybuttcheeksseven hours after arrivinghome.

It’s hard to imagine thatanythingyoudoinaroomfullof lights, old Italian dudes,and bad tuna sandwiches isgoing to be seen on TV bymultitudes, so I don’t really

think about the audienceduringmysexscenes.Gettingnaked feels better some daysthanothers.(Good:whenyouare vaguely tan. Bad: whenyouhavediarrhea.)ButIdoitbecause my boss tells me to.And my boss is me. Whenyou’renaked,it’snicetobeincontrol.

And my mother alwaysknew that, hence her Nikonraised high and pointed rightinto the mirror. She sensedthat bydocumentingher own

body, she was preserving herhistory. Beautifully. Nakedly.Imperfectly. Her privateexperimentmadewayformypublicone.

Another frequently askedquestion is how I am “brave”enoughtorevealmybodyon-screen. The subtext there isdefinitely how am I braveenoughtorevealmyimperfectbody, since I doubt BlakeLivelywouldbesubjecttothe

same line of inquiry. I amforced to engage in regularconversation about my bodywith strangers, such as thedrunken frat boy onMacDougal Street whoshouted, “Your tits look likemysister’s!”Myansweris:It’snotbravetodosomethingthatdoesn’tscareyou.I’dbebraveto skydive. To visit a lepercolony.ToargueacaseintheUnited States SupremeCourt

or to go to a CrossFit gym.Performing insexscenes thatI direct, exposing a flash ofmyweird puffy nipple, thosethingsdon’t fall intomyzoneofterror.A few years ago, after I

screened Tiny Furniture forthe first time, I was standingoutside the theater in Austinwhen a teenage boyapproachedme.Hewas tiny.Really tiny. The kind of tiny

that,asateenageboy,mustbepainful. He looked like aPersiancat’stoymouse.“Excuseme,”hesaidshyly.

“I just wanted you to knowhowmuch it meant tome tosee you show your body inthat way. Itmademe feel somuchbetteraboutmyself.”The first result of thiswas

that I pictured him naked,which was stressful. Thesecondwasextremegratitude:

for his generosity in sharing,for my ability to have anyimpact on the body image ofthis obviously cool and openyounggentleman(afterall,hewas seeing a fringewomen’s-interest film on a schoolnight).

“Thank you so much.” Ibeamed.“You’rereallyhot.”

1.Luxuryisnice,butcreativityisnicer.Hencethegamewhereyougointotheten-dollarstoreandpickoutanoutfityoumightweartotheOscars(ortothesixth-gradedance).

2.Thesidewalkisn’treallythatdirty.

3.Barbie’sdisfigured.It’sfinetoplaywithherjustaslongasyoukeepthatinmind.

4.Ifyouhaveabadfeelingaboutsomeone,don’tworryaboutoffendingthem.Justrun.Beingpoliteishowyougetyourpursestolenoryour

“pursestolen.”

5.Related:ifsomeonesays“I’mnotgoingtohurtyou”or“I’mnotacreep,”theyprobablyare.Noncreepsdon’tfeeltheneedtosayitallthetime.

6.Neveryellatsomeoneelse’schild.Justtalkshitaboutthembehindtheirback.

7.It’sokaytoignorethedresscodeifyou’rean“artist.”Peoplewillthinkyou’reoperatingonahigherplaneandfeelsuddenlyself-conscious.

8.Ifsomeonedoesn’tansweryouremailwithinsixhours,itmeanstheyhateyou.

9.“Asshole”isnotacurse

word.Notevenifyouadd“littlefucking”infrontofit.

10.It’sbettertoeatlittlebitsofeverythingthanlargeamountsofonething.Ifthatfails,trylargeamountsofeverything.

11.Respectisn’tsomethingyoucommandthroughintimidationandintellectual

bullying.It’ssomethingyoubuildthroughalonglifeoftreatingpeoplehowyouwanttobetreatedandfocusingonyourmission.

12.Keepyourfriendsclose.Buyyourenemiessomethingcool.

13.Whyspend$200onceaweekontherapywhenyou

canspend$150onceayearonapsychic?

14.“Sometimesadogsmellsanotherdog’stushy,anditjustdoesn’tlikewhatitsmells.”

15.Familyfirst.Worksecond.Revengethird.

1.Astained,tatteredcheckbook.

Becauseyoujustneverknow.

2.MynewiPhone,alongwithmyoldbrokeniPhone,becauseIcan’triskhavingsomeonefindthatiPhonewhowouldknowhowtofixitandthenseealltheimagesItookofmyownbuttpurelytoeducatemyself.

3.AneyebrowpencilbecauseIovertweezedmyeyebrowslikeeverychildofthenineties

andamnowstuckwithwhatmysistercallsbaldingcaterpillars.Weakeyebrows=weakpresentation.It’slikehavingabadhandshake,butworsebecauseit’srightonyourface.1

4.Advil,Lexapro,Mucinex,Klonopin,andTamiflu,foremotionalsecurity.Ifyou

haveanysparepills,Iwilltakethose,too,justtoupthediversityofmyportfolio.Tobeclear:Irarelytakethem.It’saknowledge-is-powersituation.Sortof.

5.Businesscards.ForwomenasdiverseasIngridtheMuscleWhispererandSandraFluke.Once I was sitting in a

Barnes and

Noble café at9:00 P.M.,absorbed in a

book about olive oil andwaiting for a friend, when abusinesscardappearedonthetable.Handwritten, it said, “Ijustwanttogodownonyou.Iask nothing in return. I willcome to wherever you are.Please call me at: 212 5555555.”Later,dyingofmorbidcuriosity, I pressed *67 and

dialed. “Hello?” He soundedlike Bruce Vilanch. I couldpractically sense his dyingmother in the background. Iripped the card into tinypieces, afraid of what mighthappen if I kept it in mypossession. I so badly didn’twant that guy to eat me outthat it seemed destined tohappen.

6.Mybuildingnewsletter.

Theaverageageofourbuilding’sresidentsiseighty-five.ThefirstnightIsleptinmyapartment,Iawokeat7:00A.M.towhatcanonlybedescribedascackling.Frommycornerwindow,Icouldseethreeorfourelderlywomenontheroof(enoughtoconstituteacoven)wearingwhitehandtowelsontheirheadsandsafarihatsatopthehandtowels,runningthrough

achoreographedroutine.The only

neighborcloseinagetome is a nine-

year-oldnamedElyse.Hopingtobeawriter/bakersomeday,she took it upon herself tostart the first buildingnewsletter. There, she detailsholiday events, stoop sales,and the status of ongoingelevator repairs. She

highlights exceptionalneighbors. (UN translators!Opera singers!) Her prose isminimal and breezy, herlayout festive. My onlycritique is that she’s notsettling into a regularpublicationschedule.Elyse was not responsible

for the memo about how toproperly dispose of adultdiapers that circulated lastMarch.

7.Mywallet.IboughtmywalletwhilehighoffmyassonlegalprescriptiondrugsintheHamburgairport.Itisdecoratedwithclowns,cars,anddachshundsandisuniformlybelovedbychildrenandJapanesewomenalike.

1 Sincewriting this, I have discovered dyeing

myeyebrows,and life isapproximately63percentbetter.

I’VEALWAYSKNOWNtherewassomething wrong with my

uterus.Itwasjustafeeling,really.

A sense that things were notquite right down there. Theentiresystem.Atayoungage,four or five, I would oftenapproach my mother with acomplaint of stinging “in myarea.” Her cure-all wasVaseline, which she appliedwith a scientific distance.“Remembertowipewell,”sheremindedme.ButIsworethat

wasn’t it. I appreciated thatshe never used embarrassingpetnameswhenitcametomyprivate parts, unlike someothergirlswhosemotherssay“pinky”or“chachi.”Inmiddleschool, as my body preparedto menstruate for the firsttime, I could feel an electriccurrent, an energy that feltwrong, intersecting lines ofpain traveling through mypelvisandlowerabdomen.

Igotmyperiodforthefirsttimethesummerbeforeninthgrade, and that fall I took adance class with my friendSophie, whose mother wasFrench and thereforeencouragedballetasexercise.EveryTuesdaywewouldtakethe train to Park Slope tospend ninetyminuteswith aninstructor named Yvette,whose mane of Flashdancehair, bell-sleeved shirts, and

chipper demeanor could notmask how disappointed shewastostillbedoingthisinherlate thirties. In a windowlessstudio with scuffed woodenfloors and a crooked MerceCunningham poster, welearned modern balletroutines, running back andforthtothestrainsof“NinetoFive” and “DaydreamBeliever.”“I can’t go,” I told Sophie

one Tuesday. “I have myperiod.”“A period isn’t a reason to

cancel something,” she said,annoyed. “You just doeverything you would usuallydo,butwithyourperiod.”

But to me, it feltlike the onset of theflu.Adullbutconstant

backache.Aneedtobendandcrumple at the waist forcomfort. And an itchy sting,

like an encounter with badleaves, inmy vagina and ass.How could anyone doanything when they felt thisway? And would this reallyhappen every month until Iwas fifty? My mother wasfifty, and her nightstand wasstackedwithbookswithtitleslike A Woman’s Cycle andSecondPuberty.Iaskedherifshe’d ever had cramps likemine. “Nope,” she told me.

“Myperioddidn’tgivemeanyproblems at all until it wentaway.” Now she had to takeallkindsofpills,usecreams.Ihad recently found amedication of hers whoseinstructions said, “Insert pillvaginally at least five hoursbeforeabath.”It didn’t happen every

month,asitturnedout.Somemonths ithappened.Fordayson end, it happened. Other

times, it would seem like itwas gone, and then I wouldwakeupandthinkIhadbeenshotinthecrotch.Themonthsit didn’t happen at all neverconcernedme until I becamesexually active and startedkeepingpregnancytestsinmysockdrawer.When Iwas sixteen Iwent

to the gynecologist for thefirst time. They tell you that

you

canwaituntilyou’reeither

eighteen or sexually active,and I was neither, but Ineeded help.My period—thepain,thevolatility,thefeelingof utter despair—was takingmyfamilyhostage.Andifmyfather asked whether I waspossibly menstruating I

screamed in his face so loudhisglassesshook.Despitemyvirgin status the gynecologistprescribed birth control,which has helped withregularity, but nothing canhelp the mood that stilldescends a few days beforemyperiodbegins,likeablackcloud rolling in. I amuncharacteristically dark andnihilistic. Everyone is out togetme,tohurtme,touninvite

me from their tea parties, tojudge my body and destroymy family. I am like acharacter onDallas, obsessedwith subterfuge and revenge,convinced I have discoveredunlikely yet real-seemingplots againstme.Once,whilein the throes of PMS, Ibecameconvincedamaninablack overcoat was followingme down La CienegaBoulevard. “The police will

never believe me,” I sighed,andbeganhatchingaplanforlosinghimonmyown.When menstruating, I am

thedefinitionofinconsolable.Cannotbeconsoled.MyfriendJenniswearsmyeyes takeona catlike slant and my facegrows pale. If someonesuggests it’s hormonal, theyare met with a deluge ofverbal abuse, followed byaggressiveapologiesandpleas

for forgiveness. Tears. I liefacedown and wait for it topass.

Menstruating is the only partof being female I have everdisliked.Everythingelsefeelslike a unique and covetableprivilege, but this? When it

began, it held a morbidfascination, like a car crashthat happened inside myunderpantseverythreeweeks.I was happy to be admittedinto this exclusive club, tofinally regard the tamponmachine with the knowledgeof the initiated. But it soonbecame tiresome, like amelodramatic friend or playrehearsals. There’s somethingso demoralizing about the

predictability of it all: Wewantchocolate.Weareangry.Our stomachs puff out likepastries. Early on, I made apromise to myself never touse menstruation as a comiccrutchoranarrativedeviceinmy work. Never tocommiserateinagroupaboutwhich pills actually take careof cramps. Never to sayanything but “I have astomachache.”AndIdo.

Last summer my vaginastartedtosting.Iwouldwakeup more conscious of mygenitals than usual and, as Icame to, I’d realize why. Aswork began, as we all wavedhello and ate our eggs on aroll and decided who to hatethatday,Iwouldfeelit.Itwaslike someone had poured a

dropofvinegar insideofme,followed by a sprinkle ofbaking soda. It bubbled andfizzed and went where itwould. I chugged water,having decided acidic urinewas the problem. I took pillsfound in the refrigeratedsection at Whole Foods thatmy hairdresser suggested. Iasked the doctor to test myurineandquestioned the lackof results. I imagined the

worst: a flesh-eating bacteriaacquired in India making itsway up my urethra, soon toturnmeintoabagofbones.Atiny tumor, like a pea, sittinghigh up inside me. Animperceptible scratch from asandytampon.

I have a lot of worstnightmares, and chronicvaginal pain has long beenamongthem.TheCameraMyMother Gave Me is Susanna

Kaysen’s lyrical littlememoirabout her struggle withvaginismus, a pain in hervagina that she could neitherexplainnorignore.I’mtellingyou:neverhaveyoureadsucha page-turner about femalegenitalia, and Kaysenmasterfullyillustratesthefactthat the vagina is an organuniquely qualified to expressour emotions to us when wearen’t capable of listening to

our brains or hearts.And thevagina is ourmost emotionalorgan,subjecttobothscienceandspirit.Attheheightofhersaga,Kaysensays:“Iwantedmy vagina back.

…I wanted the world toregain the other dimensionthat only the vagina canperceive. Because the vaginais the organ that looks to thefuture. The vagina ispotential. It’s not emptiness,

it’spossibility.”As a result of this

book, I associate painin the vagina with

weaknessandsadness.Kaysenhas made a career out ofturning her madness insideout for theworld to see, andthe book never does pin hervaginal pain on a singlemedical cause. Rather, shefinds relief by exiting a badrelationship, reclaiming her

life and spirit and, in theprocess, her vagina. So whatcould I be suppressing thatwas filling me up with pain?Was it ambivalence aboutsex?WasIevermolested?(Ifso, that would explain someother things, too.) Was Iafraid of where my careermightbetakingme,andwasIrunning so far ahead ofmyself that I couldn’t catchup? Did I even know the

difference between myurethraandmyvagina?The pain came and went,

butmy anxiety about it grewsteadily.Iavoidedthedoctor,sure the prognosis wouldsimply be “basket case.” Buteventually my catastrophicthinking became unbearable,and my incredibly patientboyfriendbecamesickof therefrain“Myvaginahurts.”SoIwenttoseeRandy.

Randyismygynecologist.Ihave had a number ofgynecologists over the years,alltalentedintheirownways,butRandyisthebest.HeisanolderJewishmanwho,beforedeciding to inspect ladiesdown there for a living,played for the Mets. He stillhas the can-do determinationof a pitcher on an underdogteamand,tomymind,thatisexactly the kind of man you

wantdeliveringyourbabiesorrootingaroundinyourvagina.

Which is exactly what hedidoneThursday,asheaskedme about work and told meabout his son’s new Frenchbulldog. “Does it hurt whenyou schtup?” he asked. Inodded yes. He inserted thespeculum as he described hiswife’scommitmenttoherspinclasses. He said “I’m not afoodie”atleastthreetimes.

“Well, it all feels okay tome,” he said. With theexceptionofasmallbumpofinexplicable scar tissue, myvaginal canal was just great.“But let’s just take a closerlook to be sure.” Hesummoned the ultrasoundtech,Michelle, who kept herengagement ring on hertanned, lumpy finger as shesnappedarubbergloveonandcovered the ultrasound wand

with what appeared to be adime-storeprophylactic.“Is that a condom?” I

asked.“Yeah,basically,”shesaid.“But is it different than a

condom? Like, what do youcalltheproduct?”“Acondom.”Kindbut firm, she slid the

ultrasound wand inside meand watched the screenclosely as she moved it back

and forth. Randy watchedwith interest as Michelleattempted to part my largeintestinelikeacurtain.

“Her uterus,” she said.“Look. It’s pretty far to theright.”

Randy nodded. “But herovary?”

“It’s pinned against thewall.”

“Myuterus?”Iasked.“It’s farover there,”Randy

said.“There’ssomeadenomyosis

right there,” Michelle said,pointing to a roiling grayshape. “But nothing largerthan that. No cysts. The leftovaryis—”

“No, it’s the right ovarythat’s wonky,” Randy said,takingthewandfromherlikean impatient kid playing avideogamewithafriend.

After a long moment, he

pattedmylegreassuringlyandremoved the wand in oneswift motion. “Okay, hop upand get dressed andmeetmeinmyoffice.”When they left, the sting

was so bad that I shook mylegs out, like a kid doing thehokey pokey, trying toredistribute the pain. Whenthatdidn’twork,Ibundledtheblue cotton gown up andpressed it tomycrotch like I

wastryingtostopupawound.InRandy’soffice,which is

home to two mismatchedregency chairs, a charcoaldrawingofapregnantwoman,and a pair of decorativeboxing gloves, he explainedthat I had classicendometriosis. Using alaminated picture fromapproximately 1987, heexplained that endometriosisiswhen thecells that line the

uterus are found outside theuterus, rising and swellingwith the monthly hormonalcycleandcausingmanyofthesymptoms I had alwaysconsidered to be my uniquedysfunction, a sign that Iwasn’t strong enough for thisworld. The bladder pain, thestingingsensation,theacheinmy lower back, were all theresult of growths the size ofpinheadsthatweredottingmy

once-pristine organs. Hecouldn’t say for sure withoutsurgery,buthe’dseenenoughof these cases to feel fairlyconfident. And theadenomyosis—when theendometrial cells begingrowing into the musclessurroundingtheuterus—wasatelltale sign. In the drawingRandy showed me, it lookedlike hundreds of seed pearlsworking their way into soft

pink velvet. He was kindenoughtoalsoshowmesomephotographs he had takenduring laparoscopic surgeries,of casesworse thanmy own.The photos looked like theremains of a wedding: ricescattered, cake smushed. Alittlebitofblood.

“Does thisexplainwhyI’msotired?”Iasked,hopeful.

“I mean, if you’re in painhalf the month, then yeah,

you’re gonna be tired,” heagreed.“And would this, like,

affect my fertility?” I askedtentatively.“It can make it harder to

getpregnant,”Randysaid.“Itdoesn’t mean it will. But itcan.”

“Do we all have uteruses?” I

askedmymotherwhen Iwasseven.“Yes,” she toldme. “We’re

born with them, and with allour eggs, but they start outvery small. And they aren’tready to make babies untilwe’re older.” I looked at mysister,nowaslim, toughone-year-old,andathertinybelly.I imagined her eggs insideher, like the sack of spidereggs in Charlotte’s Web, and

her uterus, the size of athimble.“Does her vagina look like

mine?”“I guess so,” my mother

said.“Justsmaller.”One day, as I sat in our

driveway in Long Islandplaying with blocks andbuckets, my curiosity got thebest ofme.Gracewas sittingup,babblingandsmiling,andI leaned down between her

legsandcarefullyspreadopenher vagina. She didn’t resist,and when I saw what wasinsideIshrieked.My mother came running.

“Mama, Mama! Grace hassomethinginthere!”My mother didn’t bother

asking why I had openedGrace’s vagina. This waswithin the spectrumof thingsthatIdid.Shejustgotonherknees and looked for herself.

It quickly became apparentthatGrace had stuffed six orseven pebbles in there. Mymother removed thempatientlywhileGracecackled,thrilled that her prank hadbeensuchasuccess.

For as long as I canremember, I have wanted to

be a mother. In earlychildhood, it was so extremethat I could often be foundbreastfeedingstuffedanimals.When my sister was born,family legend has it that Iaskedmymother ifwecouldreverse roles: “Let’s tell herI’mhermotherandyou’rehersister.Shewon’teverknow!”Over time, my belief in

many things has wavered:marriage, the

afterlife,WoodyAllen.But nevermotherhood.

It’s for me. I just know it.SometimesIlieinbednexttomy sleeping boyfriend andpuffoutmystomach,imaginethatheisprotectingmeandIam protecting our child.Sometimeswetalkabouthowexciting it would be ifsomething happened

accidentally,ifwewerefacedwith becoming parentswithout having to make thedecision ourselves. I namethem in my head, picturepicking them up in the park,hauling them through theGristedes when we all havecolds, stopping by a picnic“justforfiveminutesbecausehe’s really sleepy.” ReadingEloise to my three-year-olddaughter for the first time.

Running around and shuttingthe windows before a storm,explaining:“Thiswillkeepusniceanddry!”WhenItellmydoctoraunt

about my endometriosisdiagnosis(“endo”forthoseinthe know), she says I betterget cracking. “In medicalschool,thatwasthefirstthingwe were taught,” she says.“After an endo diagnosis yousaygetstartednow.”

My doctor never said thatto me. He was casual—nowthatIconsiderit,toocasual?Ihad been right all along,knownbetterthananydoctor:something really was wrongdownthere.So I have to get started

now. It’s time to get startednow.Andwhynot?Iwonder.Ihaveajob.Iaminlove.Wehave an extra bedroom thatwe are currently using for

shoes, boxes, and occasionalguests. I am told my dog isunusually goodwith children.I already look fuckingpregnant.Whythehellnot?

Icanfeelthem.Thebabies.They’re not crawling all overme. They’re not vomiting inmyhair or shrieking.They’redoing perfectly normal babythings, and I’m keeping themalive.ButIresentthem.Theirconstancy, their intrusion on

my relationship and my freetime and my naps and myimagination and my heart.They’vecometoosoon,andIcan’t do any of what I hadplanned. All I can do issurvive.My most frequently

recurring dream is one inwhich I suddenly remember Ihave a number of pets livingin my home that I haven’ttended to in years. Rabbits,

hamsters, iguanas, stacked indirty cages in my closet orbeneath the bed. Terrified, Iopen the door, and the lighttouches them for the firsttime inages.Desperate, Idigthrough the clumped, wetwoodchips.I’mafraidthey’redecomposing in there, but Ifind them still alive, thin andmilkyeyedandfilthy.Iknowthat I loved them once, thattheyhadabetterlifebeforeI

got so distracted with workand myself and let themshrivelupandnearlydie.“I’msorry, I’m so sorry,” I tellthem as I clean their cagesandfilltheirbottleswithfreshwater.“HowcanImakeituptoyou?”

Youwrotemeabeautifulletter,—Iwonderifyou

meantittobeasbeautifulasitwas.—Ithinkyoudid;

forsomehowIknowthatyourfeelingforme,howeverslightitis,isofthenatureoflove.…Whenyoutellmetocome,Iwillcome,bythenexttrain,justasIam.—LetterfromEDNAST.

VINCENTMILLAYtoEDITH

WYNNEMATTHISON

I’VEHADEXACTLYONE seriousgirlcrush,atermIhavebeentaught to hate by women Iadmire (but do not, in fact,have girl crushes on). Also,being in possession of a gaysister, I find the term “girlcrush” slightly homophobic,as if I need to make it clearthat my crush on anotherwomanisnotatallsexualbut,

rather, mild and adorable,muchlike…agirl.My crush’s name was An

Chu.Iwasinthirdgrade,sheinfourth.Sheworethermalt-shirts, wide-leg jeans, and aheadband on her hairline,creatingtheimpressionthatitwasholdingonaglossyblackwig.She was, in hindsight,

maybegay—intokickball,thekind of swagger that isn’t

designed to arouse guys butdoes anyway during thepreboner years when a girlbeingabletohorsearoundisabigger sexual stimulant thanboobs.Alaser-sharpfocusonherselectgroupofgirlfriends.An was gorgeous like a ladybut unknowable like a man.Shewasactivebutquiet.Hersmilewas slow, andherheadwastoobigforherbody,andwhen I looked at her I felt

uncomfortablywarm.We never spoke, but I

watched her closely on anovernightclasstriptoanatureretreat, gazed as she shook arainstickandanalyzedanowlpellet, and after my parentspicked me up early (I hadbarfed), I spent the nextweekendintheguestroomatmy grandma’s houseimaginingAnandmesharingsecretsinthedimorangelight

ofasleepover.I haven’t had a crush on a

woman since, unless youcount my confusingrelationship with Shane fromThe L Word. I’ve neverwanted to be with women somuchasIwantedtobe them:therearewomenwhosecareerarcexcitesme,whoseeaseofexpression is impressive,whosemasteryofpartybanterhasmesimultaneouslyhostile

and rapt. I’m not jealous intraditional ways—ofboyfriends or babies or bankaccounts—but I do covetotherwomen’sstylesofbeing.There are two types of

women in particular whoinspire my envy. The first isan ebullient one, happilyengaged from morning untilnight,abletoenjoythingslikegroup lunches, spontaneousvacations to Cartagena with

gangs of girlfriends, andplanning other people’s babyshowers. The biggerexistential questions don’tseem to plague her, and shecan clean her stove withouteveroncethinking,What’sthepoint? It just gets dirty againanywayandthenwedie.Whydon’tIjuststickmyhead…My grandma Dottie is this

kind of woman. At ninety-five, she still gets her hair

done twice weekly, is alwaysarmed with a tube of corallipstick,andoffersadviceforthelovelorn(“Youhavetobepositive and just talk withyour eyes”). She’s been teenytinyher entire life, andonce,atamilitarydance in the late’30s, a soldier told her, “Icould eat peanuts off yourhead,” which she took as amassivecompliment.Themodernversionofthis

is my friend Deb, who lovestrying new exercise classesand is able to write for thesame fourhours everyday inthe same coffee shop,unconflicted about thecreative process. She had arevolving door of casualdinner dates when she wassingle, before she met herhusband and fell in lovewithhim,neveronceaccusinghimof not understanding “what it

feels like to be me.” Debplans regular weekendgetaways to“sexy,delightful”places like Palm Springs andTulum and is amaster at thelogisticsofdinnerpartiesanddoctor’s visits. She doesn’tseem to worry that she haslupus or cancer. It would beeasy for me to jealouslydismiss Deb as flighty orsuperficial,unawareofwhat’sreally going on in the world.

But Deb’s smart and, I toldyou,Iamjealous.The other type of woman

that gets me crazy with envyis the beautiful depressive. Iknow it’s not good toglamorize depression, but Iam speaking here of a morelow-grade melancholy thatwould be a massive bummerinyoursupermarketcheckoutguybutworksprettywell foracertainkindoflong-limbed,

lank-haired aspiring actress-poet. One Sunday I waswalking around Brooklyn,looking for rice pudding,when I ran into thegirlfriendof a close male friend ofmine.Shewasjogging,milkylegsextendingformilesfromherretrotrackshorts.“How are you doing,

Leanne?”Iasked.Shelookedatmeallsleepy

eyed and, with a Victorian

sigh, said: “Shitty.” I was soimpressed!Who answers thatquestionhonestly?Let’s say Iwas onmyway to buy a gunwithwhich tokillmyselfandI ran into a casualacquaintance who works inPRforH&M:

CASUAL ACQUAINTANCE:

Hey,what’sup?LENA:Oh,notmuch.Justgoing to buy something

weird.[Giggles.]CASUAL ACQUAINTANCE:

Long time, no see.Howyabeen?LENA: Oh, ya know.Asíasí! Life is such aWEIRDthing,yaknow?It’s like OFF THEWALL! I mean, weshould get coffeesometime. I’m literallyfreeanytime.

As I watched Leanne slo-mo jog home, I thought ofhow effective that routinemust be. Leanne is sobeautiful and sad. Herboyfriend will spend yearsgoingonmidnighterrandsforher, just trying to make hersmile. I used to think guysliked itwhenyou’recheerful,adaptable,andquippy.Infact,pouting in front of a NatureChannel show and forcing

them to wonder what you’rethinking after sex is, inmostcases,farmoreeffective.

Ihavebeenenviousofmalecharacteristics,ifnotthementhemselves.I’mjealousoftheeasewithwhich theyseemtoinhabit their professionalpursuits: the lack ofapologizing, of bending overbackward to make sure thepeople around them arecomfortablewithwhatthey’re

trying to do. The fact thatthey are so often free of thepeople-pleasing instincts Ihaveconsideredtobeacurseof my female existence. Ihave watched men order atdinner,askforshittywineandextrabreadwithaconfidenceI could never muster, andthought, What a treat thatmust be. But I also considerbeing female such a uniquegift, such a sacred joy, in

ways that run so deep I can’tarticulate them. It’s a specialkind of privilege to be borninto the body you wanted, toembrace the essence of yourgender even as you recognizewhatyouareupagainst.Evenasyouseektoredefineit.I know that when I am

dying,lookingback,itwillbewomen that I regret havingarguedwith, women I soughttoimpress,tounderstand,was

torturedby.WomenIwishtosee again, to see them smileand laugh and say, It was allasitshouldhavebeen.

Ineighthgrade,myclasstooka field trip to Washington,D.C. This is a tradition foreighth grades around thecountry, the premise being

that you will see themonuments, learn about thevarious branches ofgovernment, and enjoy somewell-deserved time at JohnnyRockets. The reality is thatthedayisjustawaytogettothe night, when the curtainsare pulled back to reveal acircus of debauchery thatevery chaperone wiselychooses to “sleep” through.Students run from room to

room of some airportMarriott, their wildest selvesunleashed, screaming to beheard over the TVs and rapmusic and running showerswith nobody in them.Sometimes there’s booze in ashampoo bottle; sometimespeoplekissinabathroom.

It was on the second nightof the trip, as we watched aDrew Barrymore movie onbasic cable, that every girl in

my suite—Jessica, Maggie,even Stephanie, who had aSERIOUS BOYFRIEND—decided to go totally gay. Itstartedwithsomelightkissingon the bed, then Jessica wastopless and shaking her tits,clutchingherownnipplesandwaggling them mercilessly inourfaces.Iwas a shelter dog, frozen

with fear. It wasn’t that Ididn’twanttojoinin.Isortof

did. But what if I liked it?What if I started and I neverstopped? How could I turnback?Ihadnoissuewithgaypeople.Ijustdidn’twanttobeone. I was fourteen. I didn’twant to be anything yet. Icurled up and, like our mathteacherintheroomnextdoor,pretendedtosleep.

I’d heard about Nellie—aprodigious British playwrightwhose Wikipedia page saidshe was two months youngerthan I. An actor I know hadperformed in Nellie’s onlyNew York production anddescribed her as Tinker Bellor Annabel Lee—or PattieBoyd right around when shewasreallyfuckingshitupforGeorge Harrison. Anintellectual with a penchant

for deep emotionalconnection, drunken dancing,vintage coats slung over oneshoulder.Pictures of Nellie on the

Internet revealed a pale waifwith amess of bleached hairand an outfit like a modernJoanofArc,allpaleragsandandrogynousangles.AGooglesearchofNellie’s

name was unsatisfying. Shedidn’thaveTwitter,ablog,or

any other form of personalInternet expression. A scantwebpresence is so rare thesedays,alluring inandof itself.She was telling her storythrough the ancient mediumoftheater.Months into my Google

gumshoework onNellie, sheappearedatatalkIwasdoingat theNewYorker festival. Itwas a hard crowd to makegiggle, and they were full of

self-serious questions aboutraceand sexualpolitics that Iansweredunsteadily,tiredandunderprepared. Afterward ImetNellie in the green roomand shook her frail hand andwas surprised by how deepher voice was, like an oldBritish man’s. Her eyes werehalf closed, her collarbuttonedupashighasitcouldgo. She looked like Keats orEdieSedgwickorsomeother

importantdeadartist.“I’m such a big fan of

yours,”Itoldher,havingonlyever Google-image-searchedher. I had never read awordofherwork,but,lookingintoher heart-shaped face, Iwanted nothing more than tomakealastingimpression.Hi,I’mLena,Iwantedhertofeel,and I like theater and stoopsandpartieswherepeoplecry.

“Thank you, thank you,”

shepurred.

WhenIwasfifteenmyfriendSofia taught me her favoritetrick, one that she said drovetheboyscrazy.Shepresentedit like it was a complex actthat required expertinstruction, but really it wasjust sucking someone’s

earlobe.Shewasaheadofmein the sex game, and I triedhard to act like this wassomething I’d gotten up tobefore.Itwaslate,andIcouldhear

my parents’ dinner partywinding down, peoplegathering their coats, myfather prematurely washingthe dishes, his way ofsignaling that the night wasover.

Sofiawasexplaining tomehow stupid boys are, how afewtrickscouldbringthemtotheir knees in a matter ofseconds. She was wearing atight white t-shirt andstonewashed jeans that cutinto the meat of her waist.She had the kind of glossyhair that was always slippingout of its ponytail andpermanentlyreddenedskin.

She demonstrated on me,

on the mattress in my“office”—actually a crawlspaceoffmybedroomwherewekept crafting supplies andthelitterbox.Icouldfeelthetipsofher teethand thenmypulseinmyvagina.

I am going to London. Allalone. I haven’t been to

London since age fourteen,when Iwas angrymymotherforced me to ride a Ferriswheel and even angrierbecauseIlikedit.

Unsure of how to use thistime,IdecidetoemailNellie,whosework I have now readand found as impressive andimpenetrableasherperson.

When Nellie replies, shecalls me Darling Girl. Isuggest tea, but she’d rather

have a drink and says she’ll“come round” to pick me upat five thirty. She emails totell me she’ll be late, thenagain to say that she’s early.WhenIfindherinthelobby,she’s wearing slim leatherpants and a long black coat.Herpurselookslikeapirate’streasuresack.Ourfirststopis the“social

club”shebelongsto,downtheblock and underground. A

wood-paneled, dusty room,low ceilings, and cigarettessmoked inside. Nellie ordersredwine,soIdo,too,fiddlingnervously with the strings ofmy purse. She introducesmeto various Wilde-ishcharacters and mentionsAristotle, Ibsen, and GeorgeMichael in one breath (thatlastone isherneighbor).SheordersusnewglassesofwinebeforeI’mdonewithmyfirst,

then realizes that we’re lateforourdinnerreservationatJ.Sheekey. She leads methrough theWest End by thehand, tells me this restaurantis where her parents wouldalwaystakeherifshe’dmadegood grades or needed atalking-to. She tellsme aboutsecret affairs and secretpassageways. She loveswalking, does miles everyday.

At J. Sheekey, a fancy oldfish restaurant where theysystematically ask whetheryou’re trying to make it to atheater engagement beforeyou sit down, she ordersexpertly, whitewine and tinyfried fishes and other thingsI’m squeamish about eating,butwhen they come they arepurelydelicious,likebutterorsyrup. My face is gettingwarm, and I may already be

sharing too much. I’msupposed to have drinkswithfriends in an hour, but shebegs me to cancel and comeback to her house. “It’s anunusual place and Iwant youto meet everyone andeveryonewantstomeetyou.”Inthecabtoherhouse,we

talk. About why we write,what itspurpose iswhen, shesays, “the world is full of somuchshitwecan’tfix.”

“And in our work, wecreate a better or cleareruniverse,” I tell herbreathlessly. “Or at least onethatmakesmoresense.”“Aplacewe’dwantto live,

or can at least understand.”She nods, satisfied. “You’rereallysmart.”IrealizeI’venevertalkedto

anyone else about this, muchless a woman my own age.I’ve never talked to anyone

my own age about anythingbeyond ambition. Technique,passion, philosophy, we don’ttouchanyofthat.She asks me my worst

quality,andIsayIcanbeveryself-involved.Shesayshersisthatshegets lost in theworldofherworkandcan’tfindherwaybackoutagain.

The city is changing, frombustling metropolis to tree-linedstreetsandgrandhouseswith only a few lights on.(Google“Britishlawns”ifyouwanttoknowwhatI’mtalkingabout.) When we reach herhousewestepoutintothewetnight. The cobblestones arehard tonavigate inheels, andI cling to Nellie’s arm. I amsureI’veneverbeenanyplacelike this. It has the grandeur

ofafairytaleandthegritofaMike Leigh movie. I breathein, wet street and distantsmoke. I guess she paid forthecab.She opens the door into a

library that looks like a setfrom an episode ofMasterpiece Theatre, agedbooks scattered everywhere.They even spill out of afireplace.“Hello!?” she calls out. A

deranged French bulldogbounds down the grandstaircase, baring her teeth.“Oh,comeon,Robbie.”A girl wearing animal ears

hops out from a secret door.Shegreetsmewithahug,andIfollowthemtoalivingroomwherefourorfiveroommatescongregate over a bottle ofred wine. Each is introducedto me as an actor or aliteraturestudentorboth.Her

sister, another imp withimpossibly well-thought-outhair, has a funny phlegmylaugh.

I know I shouldn’t drinkanymore, or should at leasttemperitwithafewhandfulsof the crisps they arepassingaround. No one can explainhow they came to live here.Nelliehopsup,discardinghercoatwhileannouncingthatit’sfreezing. “Let me show you

round,”shesays.I take in

every detailof the houselike I’m sixagain andreading apicture book,

scanning the illustrationscarefully. Next to a marblefireplace liesan issueofElle,a torn thigh-high stocking, anempty pack of Marlboros, a

half-eaten pudding cup. Andeach room leads to another,like one of those New Yorkreal-estate dreams where youopen a hidden door anddiscover massive rooms youdidn’t even know you had. Ispill some of my wine downthefrontofmydress.Nellie’sbedroomcontainsa

freestanding claw-foot tub,and I eye all her books andclippingswithapatheticlevel

of interest. Nellie says shespent all of yesterday in bedwith an off-limits woman,recovering from a night thatundidher.ItellheragainhowmuchIloveherwork,whichIreally do. She works withthemes, memes, metaphors.Usesformaltricksbeyondmygrasp.“Nobody our age writes

likeyou,”Itellher.“Thank you, thank you,”

shesays.Back in the living room

they’ve started blasting old-school rap, and my glass hasbeen refilled. I can’t sitwithout my skirt riding up.Jenna,aprettygirlknownforplaying Anne Frank on theWest End, gives Nellie a fatkiss on the mouth and says,“Hello,I’mhome.”Ifeelmostwarmly toward Aidan, aformer child actor of

ambiguous sexuality who hasthe soft delivery of a boyworkinginaflowershop.

They are teaching me allsorts of new British terms—such as lairy, which means“rowdy” or “drunkenlymischievous,” and they use itinallsortsofcontextsforme:“I gotpretty lairy after a fewdrinksandnextthingIknowIwas hanging from thechandelier.”

They refill my glass andthen refill it again. We arelaughing, laughing at facesand sounds and objects, thensuddenly everything goes inwaves,andmyvisionnarrowsin a way that can only meanvomit.As soon as I announce it,

it’s happening. A torrentreleased on their heretoforeintactcreamcarpet.Ifeelthehot, acidic remains of my

dinnerrunningdownmychinand hitting the floor, and I’mtoo sick to be self-conscious.It’s too much of a relief tocarethateveryEnglishtreatIhave eaten that day, alongwith glass upon glass of redwine, is now decorating theirfloor. Nellie pets my head,cooingendearments.Irearup,lookaround.Everyone is justwhere I left them exceptAidan, who reappears with a

broom and dustpan that heusestosweepupmybarflikeit’s packing peanuts or hairtrimmings.He insistshedoesthis all the time. I’m still notembarrassed.

Nellie moves in close tome.

“Youhavesuchabeautifulface,” she tells me. “Suchamazingeyes.You’resofit.”

“Are you kidding?” I slur.“You’re a perfect-looking

creature.Andsosmart.AndIfeel…IfeellikeIunderstandyou.”Sheholdsmyface,panting

likewe’reoutinasnowstorm.Her eyes grow huge, andwithout words I understand.Sheknows I understandwhatis missing. Someone is gone.She beats her chest with atight fist. “But it hurts somuch. You can’t believe howmuchithurts.”

“Iknow,”Itellher,andforthatmoment I do. “I know, Iknow.You’resobrave.”She lies down next to me.

We’re face-to-face now.Jenna is dancing over us,laughing, having strippeddowntoonlyasportsbra.“It’shardtotalkabout,”she

says.“Iloveknowingyou.”

I squeeze her. I feel as

thoughI’veneverfeltanotherperson’s pain more deeply. Iimaginemybreathis terrible,butIalsoimagineshedoesn’tmind things like that. And Idon’t mind when she blowssmokeinmyface.Irustleherhair, my own, hers again. Ididn’tthinkshe’dkissme,butI didn’t think she wouldn’teither.IsaidIwas leavinganhourbeforeIactuallyleft,andin the cab home I clutched a

piece of paper with hernumber on it and thoughtabout how I hadn’t gotten toseeherpond.The next morning, I sleep

until almost 3:00 P.M., lulledby the sound of cabs pullingup to my hotel in the rain. Ihave meetings in theafternoonandamdeterminednot to tell anyone I vomited.But sharing is my firstinstinct, and I offer it up ten

minutes into my firstprofessional engagement ofthe day. I nurse a single cupof teauntil, around6:00P.M.,I’mreadytoeatthecrustofapotpie. I pull out my phoneand start scrolling throughimages of the night before,none of which I have amemory of taking. In one,Aidan menaces the camera,blurry.InanotherJennakissesmy sweaty face. In a few

Nellie’s cigarette waveswildly, threatening to set firetoherhouse.Inothersweareface-to-face,eyesclosed.Ourhandsareclasped.If you look carefully you

cansee,intheupper-left-handcorner, the purple specter ofmyvomit.

Ikissed threegirls incollege.All at once. Three straightgirlswereexperimentingwithuniversalloveinacornerataparty to benefit Palestinianrightsand,when theyofferedmemembership,Itookit.Wewentaroundinacircle,takingturns, kissing for just longenough to get a sense of oneanother’s mouths. They feltsoft and tickly to me, minusthehardedgesandroughbits

I was still getting used to onboys. Afterward we laughed.None of my eighth-gradefears had come true. I wasnot, suddenly, the militantlesbianleaderofamotorcyclegang, nor was I ashamed. Ididn’t even flinch when aphoto of me, mid-lip-lock,with a girl named Helensurfaced in the art building,part of a boy named Cody’s“NanGoldin–inspiredthesis.”

Later,aloneinbedandalmostover the nausea of myhangover, I zoom in on thepictureofNellieandme.Theuncropped version, that is.Conspiratorial, sickly, lostgirlsonagoodsofa.IfIwereaslightlydifferentperson,I’dhave had many nights likethis,aharddrivefullofthese

images. I may hate the term“girlcrush,”butapicturedoesnotlie.Ithasthequalityofanimage taken by a ghosthunter, revealing floaters andspirits that the participantshadbeenunabletosee.

“IDON’TTHINK this isworkingout,” he says. “I think wewould be better off asfriends.”It’s seventh grade, and

we’ve just come back fromwinterbreak.Onourlastdate

we walked up and down thestreetholdinghandsforafewhours before going intoHäagen-Dazs to wait for mymomtopickmeup.IknowIlike him because when histeethfilledwithseedsfromaVeryBerrySmoothieitdidn’tgross me out at all. NextWednesday would have beenoursix-monthanniversary.“Okay,” I squeak before

throwing myself into the

bosom of Maggie Fields’sblue fur coat.She smells likecottoncandy,andshefeelssosorryforme, leadingme intothe girls’ bathroom on thetwelfth floor and petting myhead. He was my firstboyfriend, and I feel sure I’llnever have another. Maggiehashadthree,andallofthemdisappointedher.“What a dick!” she says.

“What are we gonna do to

him?” Her Brooklyn accentonly comes out when she’sangry.Thisisthebestpart.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Isay, and crumple against thewindow.He sits in the driver’s seat

of his green jeep, wonderingwhatI’msoupsetaboutwhileI cry behind my sunglasses.

We park in silence, and heleads me back to hisapartment like I’ma littlekidin trouble.We shut the door,andhe fills aMason jarwithwater and tells me I’m theonly person who has evermattered to him. He says heknows I feel the same way,his facecontorted in theonlydisplay of emotion I’ve seensincewemet.Finally, after three more

attempts at ending it—at thebeach,onthephone,viaemail—IsitwithmyfriendMerrittat a sidewalk café in ParkSlope. It’s a little too cold tobe outside and we wear oursunglasses, shrinking downintoourhoodies.Ipickatmypancakes while she tells me,simply, “It’s okay to changeyourmind.”Aboutafeeling,aperson, a promise of love. Ican’t stay just to avoid

contradicting myself. I don’thavetowatchhimcry.So I stop answering the

phone, I stop askingpermission, and soon he’scompletely gone, like beinggrounded over Christmasbreak or some other terriblething that seemed like itwouldlastforever.

“When you’re my age, you’llknow howmysterious this allis,”hesays.He’stalkingaboutlove,and

he’s only eight years olderthan me. I should haveknown. It was going almosttoo well, a bicoastalrelationship. He called meevery morning on his way tothebeach to surf. Idescribedtheviewfrom thewindowofmy new apartment, snow

falling on the neighbor’sgarden, local cats whiningfrom their respective fireescapes. I couldn’t alwaysremember his face, so myvisual for him became myfeet, bare and pale andpressedagainstthewallaswetalked for hours. “I wish youwere here,” he said. “I’d takeyou for ice cream and showyouthewaves.”Inodded.“I’dlikethat.”Or

I’dliketolikethat.But here I am at his

birthday party, all wrong inmymother’sblackdress,facered, braid greasy, heelssinking into the soil of hisfriendWayne’sbackyard.Thegirl who is DJing has elevenbuns in her hair, and he isstandingbythehottubtalkingto another girl in a romper,andIknow,asmuchasIhaveeverknownanything,thatmy

arrival isn’t what he’dimagined. Maybe he neverreally imagined it at all. Thenextdayhetakesmeonadaytrip up the coast that shouldbe romantic but feels like ahostage situation.Aswewaitin line for fish tacos, I hopeagainst hope that no one canhearhimspeaking,andiftheydo,theydon’tjudgemeforit.Iwantmore than anything tobealone.

I head home, and havingconcluded this chapter I amabletorelaxforthefirsttimeinmonths.Afterall,desire isthe enemy of contentment.From the bathtub, I callAudrey. “It isn’t going towork,” I tell her. “I think hethinks he was being reallydeepbydatingachubbygirl.”Later,wewillfindouthewassimultaneously courting anactress from television’s The

WestWingandthatheboughtheracactus.Audrey starts to laugh.

“What a goon. He’s lucky toknow you, but too stupid toeverrealizeit.”

“Istillloveyou,”hesays,“butIhavetogomyownway.”“Soyouwanttobreakup?”

Iask,trembling.“I guess so,” he says. I fall

to the floor, like awoman inthetwelfthcenturyfaintingatthe sight of a hanging in hertownsquare.Later, my mother comes

home from a party and findsmecatatonic, lyingacross thebed, surrounded by picturesofhimandme,themittenshebought me at Christmasfolded beneath my cheek. I

amcrippledbywhatfeelslikesadness but what I will laterdiagnose as embarrassment.She tells me this is a greatexcuse: to take time formyself, tocryabunch, toeatonly carbohydrates slatheredincheese.“You will find,” she says,

“thatthere’sacertaingracetohaving your heart broken.” Iwill use this line many timesintheyearstocome,givingit

asagifttoanyonewhoneedsit.

1.“She’schubbyinadifferentwaythanweare.”

2.“Don’tworry,noonewillrememberthiswhenyou’redead.”

3.“No,pleasedon’tapologize.IfIhadyourmotherI’dbeanightmare,too.”

4.“It’sallright.Honestyhasneverreallybeenyourthing.”

5.“Maybeyoushouldopenastore?Thatwouldbeagoodjobforyou!”

6.“Holocaust,eatingdisorder.

Samedifference.”

7.“IGoogledhimand‘rape’autofillsafterhisname.”

8.“Butit’sdifferentbecauseIactuallyhaveadad.”

9.“Comeon,pleaseletmepayforlunch.Youdon’thaveajob!”

10.“There’sachapteraboutyouinmybook.”

11.“There’snothingaboutyouinmybook.”

12.“Oh,hey,yourboyfriendtriedtokissmewhileyouwereoffgettingasmoothie.Imean,eitherthatorhewassmellingmymouth.”

13.“Haveanicelife,bitch.”

I WAS AN ONLY CHILD until Iturnedsix.I figured, knowing what

little Ididabout reproduction

and family planning, that thiswas how it was always goingtobe. Ihadheard thekids atpreschool discussing theirsiblingsorlackthereof:“My mommy can’t have

anotherbaby.”“My daddy says I’m just

enough.”“Do you have brothers or

sisters?”myteacheraskedmeonthefirstdayofpreschool.“No,” I replied. “But my

mommy is pregnant with ababy.”Shewasn’t pregnantwith a

baby,notevena tinybit, andhad to explain asmuchwhenthe teacher promptlycongratulated her on the“comingaddition.”“Do youwant a brother or

sister?”mymother askedmethat night as we ate takeoutChinese off the coffee table.“Isthatwhyyoulied?”

“Sure,” I responded, ascasuallyasifshe’dofferedmeanextramooshupancake.So,unbeknownsttome,my

vote tipped the scales, andtheybeganto try inearnest. Icontinued with my routine,unawareofthestormbrewinginthebedroomdownthehall.And two years later, on aboiling day in June, mymother turned toward mefrom the driver’s seat of our

Volvoandsaid,“Guesswhat?You’re going to have a babysister.”“No,I’mnot,”Ireplied.“Yes, you are,” she said,

smiling wide. “Just like youwanted.”“Oh,”Itoldher.“Ichanged

mymind.”

Grace came late in January,onaschoolnight,noless.Mymother’s water broke,splashing the hardwood infront of the elevator, afterwhich she waddled back tomy bedroom and put me tosleep.WhenIwokeupat3:00A.M. thehousewasdark,savefor a light glowing from myparents’ bedroom. I creptdownthehall,whereIfoundababysitter named Belinda

readingontheirbed,nexttoaporcelaindollIhadrequestedfromanadinTVGuide (fivepayments of $11.99) and apileofwrappedpeppermints.In the morning I was

walkeddownBroadwaytothehospital,whereGracewastheonly Caucasian infant in anursery of Chinese babies. Ipeered through the glass:“Whichoneisshe?”Iasked.Mymotherlayinahospital

bed.Her belly still looked asfull as it had the day beforebut soft now, like a Jell-Omold. I tried not to stare atherreddenedbreasts,hangingfrom her kimono. She wastired and pale, but shewatched me expectantly as Isat in a chair and my fatherplaced the baby carefully inmy lap. Shewas long,with aflat red face and a bulbous,flakyskull.Shewas limpand

helpless,flexingandunfurlingherminusculefist.Ifoundmynew doll significantly cuter.He held up the Polaroidcamera, and I raised GracelikeIwouldtheprizerabbitata4-Hfair.IspentGrace’sfirstnightat

home wailing “INTRUDER!RETURN HER!” until Iexhausted myself and fellasleep in an armchair. Thefeeling was so sharp, so

distinctly tragic, that I havenever forgotten it, eventhough I have never felt itagain.Maybeit’sthesensationof finding a lover in yourspouse’sbed.Maybeit’smorelikegettingfiredfromthejobyou’ve had for thirty years.Maybe it’s just the feeling oflosingwhatisyours.From the beginning, there

was something unknowableabout Grace. Self-possessed,

opaque, she didn’t cry like atypical baby or make herneeds clear. She wasn’tparticularly cuddly, andwhenyouhuggedher(atleastwhenI hugged her), she wouldwriggle to get free like askittish cat. Once, when shewas around two, she fellasleep onme in a hammock,and I sat as still as I could,desperate not to wake her. Inuzzled her downy hair,

kissed her chubby cheek, ranmy pointer finger along herthick eyebrow. When shefinally awoke it was with ajolt,asifshehadfallenasleeponastrangeronthesubway.Grace’s playpen sat in the

middle of the living room,between the couch and thedining room table I hadcarved my name into. Weconducted our lives aroundher, my parents talking on

twin telephones, me drawingpicturesof“fashiongirls”and“crazy men.” Occasionally Iwould kneel on the floor infront of her, stick my faceinto the mesh of herenclosure, and coo, “Hiii,Graaacie.”Oncesheleanedinand placed her lips on mynose. I could feel them, hardand thin, through the barrier.“Mom, she kissedme! Look,she kissed me!” I leaned in

again, and she bit down hardonmynosewithhertwonewteethandlaughed.As she grew, I took to

bribing her for her time andaffection: one dollar inquarters if I could do hermakeup like a “motorcyclechick.”Threepiecesofcandyif Icouldkissheron the lipsfor five seconds. WhatevershewantedtowatchonTVifshewouldjust“relaxonme.”

Basically, anything a sexualpredator might do to woo asmall suburban girl I wastrying.Maybe, I thought, shewould be more willing toaccept kisses if I wore theface mask my grandmotherhad for when she did herdialysis.(Theanswerwasno.)What I reallywanted,beyondaffection,wastofeelthatsheneeded me, that she washelplesswithoutherbigsister

leadingherthroughtheworld.I took a perverse pleasure indelivering bad news to her—the death of our grandfather,a fire across the street—hoping that her fear woulddriveherintomyarms,wouldmakehertrustme.“Ifyoudon’ttrysohardit’ll

bebetter,”myfathersaid.SoIhungback.Butonceshewassleeping, I would creep intoher room and listen to her

breathe: in, out, in, out, inagain,untilsherolledaway.

Gracealwaysintriguedadults.For starters, she was smart.Her interests ranged fromarchitecture to ornithology,and she approached thingsmuchmore likeanadult thanwiththeirksomewhimsyofa

precocious child. As a littlegirl I had been obnoxiouslyself-aware, irritatingly smug,prone to reading thedictionary “for fun” andmaking pronouncements like“Papa,nobodymyageenjoysreal literature.” Things I’dheard “special” people say inmovies.Gracesimplyexisted,full of wisdom and wonder,which iswhyweoften foundher in the bathroom at a

restaurant, talking a forty-year-old woman through abreakup or asking what acigarette tasted like.One daywe found her in our pantryswigging from a small bottleof airplane vodka, disgustedbutintrigued.

On only oneoccasion did hermaturity go toofar. It was thedawn of social

media, and Grace, then infifthgrade,askedmetomakeher a Friendster account.Together we listed herinterests (science, Mongolia,rock’n’roll)andwhatshewaslooking for (friends) anduploaded a blurry picture ofher blowing a kiss at thecamera, clad in a neon one-piece.One night I picked up my

computer, and itwas open to

Grace’s Friendster messages.Therewereadozenor so,allfrom a guy named Kent: “Ifyou love Rem Koolhaas, weshoulddefinitelymeetup.”Alwaysthealarmist,Iwoke

up my mother, whoconfronted Grace about itover whole-wheat pancakesthe next morning. Livid,Gracerefusedtospeaktomefor several days. She didn’tcare whether I was trying to

protect her, or what “Kent”the “ad sales rep” had inmind. All that mattered wasthatIhadtoldhersecret.

In college, my dormmateJessica started dating a girl.Tome, it seemedsuddenandrash, a response to trendypolitical correctness rather

than basic human desire.“She’s trying to prove she’snot just another JAP,” I toldpeople. “She broke up withher boyfriend like twoweeksago! All she cares about areshoesanddresses.”

Her girlfriend, a pretty-faced soft butch with roundglasses and hunk-at-the-sock-hop hair, had graduatedalready and would drive toOhioeveryotherweekend,at

which point I would have toclearout,sleepingonthefloorof someone else’s room, sothey could go down on eachotherforinfinity.SometimesIwouldaskher

to tell me about the sex andwhethersomeoneelse’svaginawasinsanelygross.“No,” she said. “I actually

likedoingit.”“It”meant“oralsex.”Grace came to visit me at

school one weekend, and Ibroughthertoaparty.Bythistime she was fifteen, all legsand eyes and fawn-coloredfreckles, with shiny brownhair that fell down her backand two-hundred-dollar jeansshe had somehow convincedmy father she needed. Shestood in the corner, laughingand nursing the single beer Ihadpromisedher.Oberlin being a liberal

haven where opposition wasking, the coolest clique atschoolwas a groupof rugby-playing, neon-wearinglesbians. They dominatedevery party with their KateBush–heavy mix tapes,abstract facepaint, andpansexual energy. “Kissing isa dance move,” their leader,Daphne, once explained tome.

And that night Daphne

noticed Grace, her littlepuppynoseandthebigridgedteeth she still hadn’t growninto,anddraggedherontothedancefloor.“We’realive!”sheshouted,

and Grace was embarrassed,butshedanced.Awkwardlyatfirst, then with conviction,engagedbutnotoverlyeager.I watched her from the sofawithpride.That’smygirl.Shecanrollwithanything.

“Your sister’s gay,” myJessica announced the nextday,foldingthefreshlaundryspreadacrosshertwinbed.“Excuseme?”Iasked.“I’m just saying, she’s into

girls,” she said casually, likeshewasofferingmeahelpfultip onhow to savemoneyoncarinsurance.And I completely lost it:

“No, she’s not! Just becauseyou’regayforaseconddoesn’t

mean everyone else is too,okay!?AndnotthatI’dcareifshe was, but if she was, Iwould know. I’m her sister,okay? I’d know. I knoweverything.”

Grace came out to me whenshe was seventeen. We weresitting at the dining room

table eating pad thai, ourparents out of town, as theyoftenwere now thatwewereold enough to fend forourselves. Twenty-three andsponging mightily, I forkedsome noodles intomymouthas Grace described a terribledatewitha“dorky”boyfromanuptownschool.

“He’stootall,”shemoaned.“Andnice.Andhewas tryingtoohardtobewitty.Heputa

napkin on his hand and said,‘Look, I have ahandcape.’ ”She paused. “And he drawscartoons. And he hasdiabetes.”“He sounds awesome!” I

said. And then, before Iconsidered it: “What are you,gay?”“Actually, yes,” she said,

with a laugh,maintaining thecomposure that has been hertrademarksincebirth.

I began tosob. Notbecause Ididn’twanther tobegay—intruth,itworkedperfectlywithmy embarrassing image ofmyselfasthequirkiestgirlontheblock,hencemyrecurringsuggestion that my parentsfoster a child from a thirdworld background.No, I wascryingbecauseIwassuddenlyfloodedwithanunderstanding

of how little I really knew:about her pains, her secrets,thefantasiesthatplayedinherhead when she lay in bed atnight.Herinnerlife.

Shehadalwaysfeltopaquetome, a beautiful unibrowedmystery just beyond ourfamily’s grasp. I had beentelling my parents, sister,grandma—anyonewhowouldlisten, really—about mydesires from an early age. I

live in a world that is almostcompulsivelyfreeofsecrets.

WhenGracewasthree,shecame home from preschooland announced she was inlovewithagirl.“HernameisMadison Lane,” she said.“And we’re going to getmarried.”

“You can’t,” I said.“Becauseshe’sagirl.”

Grace shrugged. “Well, weare.”

Later, this became afavoritefamilystory:theyearGrace was gay, the MadisonLaneincident.Shelaughed,asif we were telling any sillybabystory.Welaughedlikeitwasajoke.

But it wasn’t a joke. AndGrace’sadmissionfeltnotlikea revelation but aconfirmationofsomethingweall understood but refused tosay. Throughout high school

Grace remained above thefray. She was president ofspeechanddebate,attendingarhetoric match, then runningofftotennislessonsinacrispwhite skirt, skeptical of thehormonal hysteria that hadovertaken her girlfriends.She’s toomature,wethought,too unusual to get caught upincrushes.Wesaid, “Collegewill be her time. Forsatisfaction, for relaxation,

forboys.”Gracewaspolite,firm,and

unemotional as she answeredmy questions, continuing toeat her pad thai steadily andcheck her phone every fewminutes. The basics: Whendid you know? Are youscared?Doyoulikesomeone?Then the ones I couldn’t ask:Whathave I ever said that letyou down, that failed you ormadeyoufeelalone?Whodid

youtellbeforeyoutoldme?Isthis my fault because of thedialysismask?Shesaidshe’dalreadyhada

romance, a girl named Junewho was her roommate on asummerprograminFlorence.They kissedmost nights and,she said, they “never reallytalked about it.” I tried toimagine June, but all I couldpicture was a snowy-whitemannequininawig.

Mydiscomfortwithsecretsmade waiting for Grace tocome out to my parentstorturous. Ibeggedher to tellthem, saying it was for hersake but knowing it was formy own. Sitting with theknowledge, the divide itcreated in our home,was toomuch for me. I had neverbeen comfortable with whatwas not said, and there wasnothing I would not say. But

Grace wasn’t ready, despitemy cajoling and kicking herunder thedinner table. I heldmy tongue, despite my fearthatIwouldhaveaTourette’smoment and shout, Grace isgay!One morning, my mother

emerged from her bedroom,eyes sunken, hair askew,bathrobe still on. “I didn’tsleepatall,”shesaidwearily.“Grace has a secret, I know

it.”I gulped. “What do you

thinkitis?”“Shestayslateafterschool,

sheignoresmewhenIaskherquestions about her day. Sheseems distracted. I think”—she took a pained sip of hercoffee—“I think she’s havingan affair with her Latinteacher.”“Mom,no,”Isaid.“Well, how else do you

explainit?”“Just think,” I hissed.

“Think.” I waited, though notlong enough, for her tounderstand.“Graceisgay!”ShecriedharderthanIhad,

likeasurprisedchild.Or likea mother who had gottensomethingwrong.Afewyearsaftershecame

out, Grace admitted that theJune encounters were afiction. She had invented

themasameansofprovingtoanyone who questioned herthat shewas reallygay. Iwasrelieved to learn she hadn’tfallen in love without tellingme.

Grace is graduating fromcollege. The four years sinceshe left home have lessened

hermysteryanddeepenedhersense of self. She’s emergedas a surprising, strange adult,still prone tobouts ofmoodydistancebutalsopossessedofa high cackle and a desire tohave constant and aggressivefun. Sometimes she hugs andticklesme,andherlong,coldfingers annoy me, a reversalof fortune I never imaginedpossible. When she writes,which isn’t often, I get

insanely jealous of the wayhermindworks, the fact thatshe seems to create for herownpleasureandnottomakeherselfknown.

She dresses likea Hawaiiancriminal, loose,patterned shirtsand oddly fittingsuits, loaferswithoutsocks.Herattitudetowardsex

is more modern than mineand has a radical element Ichased but never found. Shewakes up with her hairknotted and leaves the houselike that, often not returninghome until late. She has atasteforunusualwomen,withstrongnosesanddolleyesandcreative dispositions. She hasastrongsenseofsocialjusticeand an eye for anachronismsandcontradictions.Sheisthin

butphysicallylazy.Guysloveher.

1.Becauseeverythingiseveryone’sbusiness,buteverystorystartswith“ThereIwas,mindingmyownbusiness…”

2.Becausetherulesarereallymorelikesuggestions.

3.Becauseit’smorethanjustManhattan,orevenBrooklyn.PlaceslikeRooseveltIslandandCityIslandandRikersIsland!DidyouknowthatthereisacommuneonStatenIslandthathasadwarfchef?DidyouknowthatthereisaColonialmansioninBrooklynwhereaJapanesesurgeon

liveswithhisblindwife,orsoIwastold?DidyouknowthatyoucanbuyatinyturtlewithhighlycontagioussalmonellainChinatownthatissoadorableyouwillwanttoriskit?

4.Ihaveapassionforcabdrivers.Iforeverstandbythestatementthatthereisnomorebrilliant,diverse,eccentricgroupofhuman

beingsonthisplanetthanthemen(andrarewomen)employedbytheTaxi&LimousineCommissionofNewYork.Myfatherdroveacabforsixmonthsinthelateseventies,andItoldeveryoneinthesecondgradeitwasstillhisjob.

5.Becauseeveryonehatesasuit.Eventhesuits.

6.BecauseifIseeanotherfilmthat’sa“lovelettertoNewYork”orinwhich“NewYorkisreallythethirdcharacterinthisromance,”I’mgoingtoexplodewithrage,andyetIstillrecognizethatnothinglooksbetteroncamerathanaMidtowncornerinwinterortheStatenIslandFerryinhighAugust.

7.Becauseofthetwenty-

four-hourpharmacyonForty-eighthandEighth,wherea3:00A.M.pleaforaKlonopinrefillistreatedlikebuyingmilkat5:00P.M.inBethesda.

8.Becausethepeoplemaynotbepolite,butwhenitcountsthey’resomethingbetterthanpolite:they’rekind.They’realwayslettingyoutakeyourteawhenyou’reshortonchange.Orlettingyoutake

thefirstcabifyou’recrying.Orlettingyoupeewhenyoudidn’tevenbuysomething.Orrushingtoyoursidewhenyoustepinapotholewearingplatformsandeatit,hard.Helpingyoutrapthelop-eared,terrifiedrabbitthathasbeenlivinginaDumboparkinglotforweeks.Givingyoudirectionshome.

9.Becauseeveryonegets

catcalled.AndImeaneveryone.Ifyouhaveavagina,bybirthorbychoice,youwillbecalled“mami”or“sweetie”or“BritneySpears.”Andthecatcallscanbesocreative!Once,mylittlesisterwaswalkingdownthestreetinherthickblackglasses,andahomelessmanmuttered,“Talknerdytome.”

10.BecauseIwasbornhere,

andNewYorkisnoalien:sheisinmygutlikeanoldsickness.SometimesI’llbewalkinginSohoorBrooklynHeights,andasmell,somebrandofstaleair,stopsmedeadinmytracks.Boundupinthatsmell:whatitfeltliketobedraggedhomefromBalducci’sonahotnightwithablisterfrommyjellyshoe,beggingeverystepofthewayforacab,realizingwith

horrorthatIwassoclosetomyhouseIcouldseeitandstillIwasonfoot.Theshadyviewfromthewindowofmydentist’swaitingroom,beforeshestuffedherfatfingersinmymouth.Thedayweweresolatetoschoolanditwasrainingsohardthatwecaughtarideinthebackofasoy-milktruck,whichmymotherdeniestothisday.Sittinginanalleywithsomeguysfrom

adifferentschool,watchingthemsmoke.WaitingformyparentstogethomebecauseI’dlostmykeysandpissinginsomeone’spottedplant.LookingdownandrealizingIaminexplicablyuptomykneesinmud.ThetimeItookacabonmybirthdayandithitanoldwoman,andshelayinthestreet,teethknockedout,whilethecabdriverheldherbloodyheadinhisarms,

andIshrunkdownlowuntilfinallyapedestriantaskedwithmovingthecaroutoftheintersectionnoticedmecowering,andIgasped,“It’smybirthday.”ThetimeIwasinasundresswalkingmydogandlockedeyeswithaguyonabicycle,andheroderightintoaparkedcarandIran.Eachcornerisamemory.Inthatway,it’sjustlikeeverytown.

NOBODYBELIEVESTHISSTORY.

It was the spring of thirdgrade;ourclasswastakingan

overnight trip to a campcalled Nature’s Classroom,where we would spend threedays learning aboutteamwork, ecology, andhistory in a remote corner ofupstateNewYork.Ihadbeensick about it since themoment I found out, twomonths before, and broughtthe permission slip home tomy parents secretly hopingtheywouldhanditbacktome

andsay,Noway!Nodaughterof ours is going to the woodsfor three days! FORGETABOUTIT.I didn’t have friends.

Whetherthiswasbychoiceornot was a question I seemedunable to answer, for myselfor for my parents, who wereobviously concerned. I wasanxious simply leaving myfamilyforthedayandmadeacollect call to my mother

every lunch period, mystomach tightening when Icouldn’t reach her. The bestnews I ever could havereceivedwouldhavebeenthatmy parents had decided tohomeschoolme,toremoveallpretense of socialization andjust let me spend my dayswith them in their studios,whereIbelonged.Really, I’d hated school

since theday I got there.My

father often repeats the storyof my initial reaction tokindergarten: I came homefrom the first day andplopped down at my pint-sizeddesk.“So, how’d it go?” my

fatherasked.“Itwas fun,” I said. “But I

don’tthinkI’llgoback.”He gently explained that

wasn’tanoption,thatschoolisto children as work is to

grown-ups: it’s what you do.And so I would have to goeveryday, rainor shine,withonlyoccasionalexceptionsforillness,untilIturnedeighteen.“Then,” he said, “you candecidewhattodonext.”Thatwas thirteen years away. Icouldn’t imagine thirteenmore minutes of this, muchlessthirteenyears.But there I was, having

madeittothirdgrade,headed

upstate in a fifteen-passengervan while Amanda Dilauroshowedmeasheafofpicturesof her cat Shadow. The firstthing I did when we reachedour bunk was drop mybackpack on the vinylmattressandvomit.Overthenextfewdays,we

were led from activity toactivity. We playedtambourines, weighed ourleftovers before adding them

tothecompostpile,pretendedeggswereourpreciousbabiesand carried them around ournecksinpaddedcupsdanglingfrom twine.And then,on thefinal day, itwas time for thefauxUndergroundRailroad.Thisisthepartthatnoone

believes.“No adult would ever do

that,” they say. “Youcan’t berememberingthatright.”I am, in fact, remembering

it perfectly. The counselors“shackled” us together withjump ropes sowewere “likeslave families” and thenreleased us into the woods.Wewere given amapwith aroute to “freedom” in “theNorth,”whichmusthavebeenonly three or four hundredfeet but felt likemuchmore.Then a counselor onhorseback followed tenminutes later, acting as a

bounty hunter. Hearinghooves, I crouched behind arockwithJasonBaujelaisandSariBrooker,beggingthemtobequietsoweweren’tcaughtand “whipped.” I was tooyoung, self-involved, anddissociated to wonder whatkindofimpactthishadonmyblack classmates. All I knewwas that Iwasmiserable.Weheard the sound of hoovesgrowing closer and Max

Kitnick’s light asthmawheezes from behind an oaktree. “Shut up,” Jason hissed,and I knewwe were cooked.Whenthecounselorappeared,Saristartedtocry.Back at base camp, the

counselor who became abounty hunter became acounseloragainandexplainedhowmanyAmericanstraveledtheUndergroundRailroadandhowmanydidn’tsurviveit.As

he spoke, he pulled out acardboard timeline of theCivil War, and all I couldthinkwas:Thisisstupid.Thisissosostupid.What were we going to

learn from being lashedtogether with our classmatesandchasedbyapony?Wouldwe suddenly empathize, beable to fully imagine theexperience of the Americanslave?

A month after Nature’sClassroom, my slave brotherJason Baujelais wassuspended for casual use oftheN-word.Theexercisewasafailure.

Fifth grade was when youmade the switch to middleschool, andwith it camenew

privileges:electiveclassesandpizzaFridaysandfreeperiodsin the library. My fourth-grade classroom was acrossthe hall from fifth-gradehistory, and sometimes thatteacher,Nathan, left his dooropen so we could hear himexplaining Mesopotamia to agroup of laughing eleven-year-olds. I’d seen Nathanaround.Hewasthedefinitionof gangly. His hair was

thinning, and he cut thesartorial figure ofBob Saget,but he was youthful in theway he bounded around theclassroom, using silly voiceslike Dana Carvey’s, myfavorite, and holding conteststo see who could say “like”theleast.Thefifth-gradersallsaidhewasthebest.One day, our fourth-grade

hamster,Nina,hadbabies.Sixof them. They looked like

chewed-uptomatoes,whichiswhatItoldourteacherwhenIsummonedhertothecage.“Ithink she barfed fruit orsomething.”Kids crowded around the

cage, but by the afternoonthey had lost interest. I,meanwhile, becameobsessed,particularly with the runt,which was black and whiteand about the size of a favabean. I named it Pepper. As

Pepper grew, it became clearthere was an issue: its backlegs were fused together bysome kind ofmembrane thatlooked like pink bubble gumstretched thin. As a result ofthis deformity it had to dragitselfaroundbyitsfrontlegs,and itusuallygot leftbehind.Kathy, our teacher, wasconcerned:soonPeppermightget beaten to the food bowl,bullied,orworse.Nathan,she

toldme,wasahamsterexpert.He had fifteen of them athome. Perhaps I could takePepperacrossthehallandseewhathehadtosay.

I approached cautiously atlunch, carrying Pepper in anopenshoebox.Ipausedatthedoor, watched him for amoment at his desk hunchedovera sandwich,a juicebox,and a grown-up novel.“Hello?”

Nathan lookedup.“Hello.”

I explained thesituationinfitsandstarts,tryingsimultaneouslytoconveythegravityofPepper’scaseandtakeintherealityofa fifth-grade classroom. Hemotionedformetohandhimthebox.Hepeeredin,pickingPepper up in a confidentmotion,holdingherunderthetiny armpits while he

examined the lowerextremities. He removed apair of nail scissors from hisdesk drawer, and I watchedhim cut Pepper’s legs apart.“It’s a she,” he said. Shewasmewing, kicking her newlyfreedfeet.“She’llbefine.”

The next year, when I got to

Nathan’s class, I felt like Ialready knew him. He actedlikeheknewme,too.Andhenoticed: that I loved to readandwriteandactandalsothatI had no friends. He invitedmetostaywithhimforlunch,soIdidn’thavetostandoutinthecourtyardwitheveryoneIhated, huddling in the cornerto stay warm while sportiertypes sweated and had toremove their overlayers. We

wouldusually endup talking:about books, rodents, thethingsthatscaredme.Hetoldme his wife had died rightafter his daughter was bornand that he had gotten a newwife,buthedidn’t likeherasmuch.He said itwas hard tofind someone you wanted tospend that much time with.Hisenergyshifted:somedayshe was calm and funny.Othershewasantsyandtense,

stoppingeveryfewminutestoshoot Nasonex up his leftnostril.“Stupidallergies.”

I’dneverhadateachertalktome thisway. Like Iwas aperson, whose ideas andfeelings mattered. He wasn’tjustnice.HesawmeforwhoIfeltIwas:achinglybrilliant,misunderstood, full ofnovellas andpoemsandwell-timed jokes.He toldme thatpopularkidsnevergrowupto

be interesting and thatinteresting kids are neverpopular. For the first time, Ilooked forward to school. Tothemoment I’dwalk into theclassroom and catch his eyeandfeelcertainIwasgoingtobeheardthatday.He called me “My Lena,”

which became Malena. At acertain point he startedrubbing my neck while hetalked to the class. He put a

heartontheboardeverytimeIsaid“like,”but justacheckfor the other students. I wasterrified of what the otherkids would think and thrilledtohavebeenchosen.Onedayhe brought his daughter toclass, and she sat on his lapduringlunch,drinkingajuicebox, her feet dangling,skimming the floor. Shelookedjustlikehiminawig.Iwantedtokillher.

That winter, JasonBaujelais (now seeminglyforgiven for the N-wordincident)announcedhehadn’tdone his homework. “Well,that’s a problem,” Nathansaid,armscrossed.

“You nevermake Lena doherhomework,”Jasonsaid.

Ifroze.Nathanapproachedslowly and askedme to openmy backpack. I unzipped it,terrified of what might fall

out. There were piles ofunfinished worksheets, half-finished papers, all of whichhehadjuststoppedaskingmefor. He said he’d rather readmystories.“You better have all this

done by tomorrow,” he toldme.Ihadpickedupadollarbill

thathadfallenoutofmybag,andIwasfeelingit,turningitover in my sweaty hand. He

snatchedit.“You can get this after

class.”Once the classroom

emptied out, I approachedhim. “Hi. Can I have mydollar?”He smiled and stuck it

downhisshirt.“Okay,nowIdon’twantit.”

I giggled, hoping it wouldcalmusbothdown.He chucked it at me.

“Jesus, Lena. You’re all talk,but when it comes toaction…”

It would be years before Iknew what he meant, but Iknew I didn’t like the soundof it, and I told my mother,who looked likeshehadseena parade of ghosts. “Thatfucking pervert,” she said,furiously dialing my father.“Comehomefrom the studionow.”

The next morning, shemarched into school withmerather than dropping me onthesteps.Iwaitedoutsidetheprincipal’s office, catchingsnippets of my mom’smuddled but distinctly angryvoice.Istaredatthelinoleumfloor, wondering whether Iwas in trouble.Afterawhile,shestormedout,grabbingmyhand.“We’regetting thefuckoutofhere.”

Fifteenyears later, Imet aman whose daughter was inNathan’s class, at a differentschoolinadifferentborough.“Oh,youshouldwatchit,”I

told him matter-of-factly,trying to sound more relaxedthan I felt. “He wasinappropriatewithme.”His face turned stormy.

“That’s a pretty bigaccusation.”“Iknow,”Isaid,rushingto

thebathroombeforehecouldsee me cry. I was remindedagain that there are so manythings we need that can alsohurt us: cars, knives, grown-ups. I was reminded how noonereallylistenstokids.

I switched schools in seventhgrade, toan institutionwhose

values aligned with my own,and for six years school wasasokayasitwouldeverbe.Iwrote poems, sprawling epicswith curse words and casualmentionsofsuicidethatdidn’tget me sent to the schoolpsychologist. (I’m not surethere was a schoolpsychologist.) We put onplays, some of them aboutlesbians or cat breeders orboth.Ourteachersengagedus

in lively debate and werewilling to say “I don’t know”when theydidn’tknow. Iwasallowed to circulate literatureabout veganism in thestairwell.AteacherandIhada misunderstanding and we“talked it out.” It didn’t feelinappropriate.Itfeltreal.

Iwas not a perfect student—far from it. I wasovermedicatedandexhausted,wearing pajamas and a

vintage hat with a veil. Istruggled to stayawake inarthistory class. I had anauthority problem. But I wasliving in a world where wewereunderstoodandhonoredfor what we had to offer. Iwasallowedtotakemypuppyto gym class.My best friendplayedadidgeridooheboughtofftheInternet.Itwasabest-casescenarioforaworst-caseproblem: the fact that the

government says we have togotoschool.Andwhenitwasfinally time to leave, Iwasn’tready.

I bounded into Oberlin,thrilledtohavebeenacceptedand ready to learn with acapital L. I was keen onbecoming a creative writing

all-star and had prepared a“portfolio” ofmy poems andshort stories for the head ofthe department. Dressed inbookish cords, I waitedoutsideherdoorduringofficehourstodiscussitwithher.“Well,” she said. “You

clearlywritealot.”“Oh, thank you! I do,” I

told her. “Every day!”Chipper,as if she’dgivenmeamassivecomplimentandnot

juststatedafact.“Therearesomeinteresting

moments,butyoudon’thaveaparticular facility for anygenre. The poems feel likestories. The stories feel likeplays.”I nodded, like, great point.

“Yes!Ialsowriteplays.”“And the story,” she said,

“about the fakeUndergroundRailroad. That just feels likesatire, like something from

The Onion. It’s a bit broad,obvious.”All I could muster was a

tiny“Butitreallyhappenedtome.”She nodded, clearly

unimpressed.She let me in, but with

reservations, and my ragefrom this tiny encounterfueled me and I became themost combative girl in everywriter’s workshop. The one

who crossed out sentencesdramatically in front of thewriter of the piece. The onewho posited the ever-so-helpful “What ifALLof thisis bullshit?” I hadbeggedmywayin,andnowIwantedout.ButfirstIwantedeveryonetorealize what they were doingtous,theseteachers.Drainingus of our perspective,teaching us to write like thepoets theyadmired—or, even

worse, like them.Therewereonly three teachers I liked.One because he seemed tohave other interests, anotherbecause he smoked andcursed, and a third becausehis ex-wife wrote a memoirabout him cheating on herwith a French teacher thatsold fairly well. He was nowwithanother,differentFrenchteacher and wore a diamondearring,appearingunfazed.

My parents have authorityproblems. In second grade,my mother was sent homefrom school for trying toorganize a protest in whichevery girl defied the dresscode and wore pants. Shefound her teachers not onlyboring but repulsive,especially the oneswhowere

trying to embrace thecounterculture. They couldn’ttrick her with their longcenter-parted hair, theiramberbeads, their useof theword “vibe.” Even now, apart-time teacher herself, sheis horrified by the idea ofanyone telling her what tothink or do. She is alsoopposed to socializing withher students, mortified thatanyone would think she was

pulling the “cool teacher”move.“Thereisnothingmoredisgusting than being theoldest lady at the party,” shelikestosay.My father, meanwhile,

began his academic career asthe shining star of theSouthbury, Connecticut,public school system. Classpresident, book-club leader,smiling bucktoothed in anecktie on the Student of the

Month placard. But like allthemeninhisfamily,hewaseventually shipped off toboarding school, and by thetime he got to Andover hewas fifteen, shaggy haired,and angry, refusing to attendchapel or even class.When IreadCatcherintheRye itwasinstantly familiar, like anextension of the stories myfatherwouldtellonalongcarride. My father’s journey

from emblem of academicexcellence to deadbeatburnout was a classicnarrative but a potent one. Ifelt pride imagining themomentherealized itwasallbullshit, man, and at hisbravery for refusing to becarriedalongwiththecurrent.One time he cut class andwalkedintothewoodsandoutonto the surface of an icypond,onlytofallthroughinto

the freezing water. After aterrifying struggle, he caughthold of the ice and pulledhimself out and ran, soaking,back to the safety of hisdormitory. But his life hadflashed before his eyes. Hecould have died. After all,nobodyknewwherehewas.

Iwentthroughbriefphasesofbeingagoodstudent.Showingupearlytomyseminarwithamug of tea, taking cogentnotes with a mechanicalpencil, carrying my booksclosetomychestlikeagirlina movie about Radcliffe. Iloveddoingitright—theeaseof it, the tidiness of myobjectives,whichweresimplytounderstandandexpressthatunderstanding.

But inevitably it faded. Amonth into the semester, Iwouldstartshowinguptwentyminutes late to class again,with a bag ofCheezDoodlesandacupofcoldgrits,havingleft my notebook at home.The rewards weren’t enoughto keep me on task, and lifegot in the way. My mindwandered to the future,postcollege, when I’d createmy own schedule that served

my need to eat a rich snackevery five to fifteenminutes.As for the disappointmentwritten across the teacher’sface?Icouldn’t,andwouldn’t,care.

I wasfifteenminutes latetograduation.

My mother forgot the peachsilk dress I planned to wear,

andsoIboughtavintagesariand piled my hair atop myhead and trooped out to thearch in themiddleofTappanSquare and waited for themusic to start.Myboyfriend,already graduated, lay out onthelawn.Myfatherwonderedwhy he had worn a suit.Wewere given two options:walkaround the Tappan Squarearch if you don’t support theimperialist missionaries who

installed it orwalk through itifyoudon’tknow,don’tcare.I can’t remember whichoption I chose, only that Icouldn’t believe I had nevernoticedthepregnantoboistinline in front of me. As westrodeontothelawn,Inoddedattheteachers,dressedtothenines in their Hogwarts garbforthetenth,thirtieth,fiftiethyear in a row. Later,motherfuckers.

I go back to Oberlin in thedead of winter to give a“convocation speech” inFinneyChapel,thelargestandmost historic of campusstructures. In a subconsciousnod tomycollegeexperienceI forget to pack both tightsand underwear and have tospend the weekend goingcommandoinawoolskirtand

kneesocks. I am touredaround the school like I’m astranger by a girl who didn’teven go here. We stop at aglossy new café for tea andscones. She asks if I want atourofthedormitories—no,Ijust want to wander aroundaloneandmaybecry.

That it’s been six yearssinceIgraduatedfromcollegeseemsimpossible.Olderfolkslaugh at my naïveté, saying

thatsixyearsisnothinginthescheme of life. But now I’vebeen gone longer than I wasthere. Soon, my life as astudent will be as far behindmeassummercamp.I head down to the

basement of Burton Hallwhere they’ve assembled aquestion-and-answer session,withstudentjournalistssittingin amessy half circle aroundme. I make sure to keep my

legscrossed,soastoavoidtheheadline: “Returning AlumnaFlashes Vagina.” Most ofthem ask sweet, neutralquestions:“Whatdoyouthinkis the most beautiful spot inOberlin?” “If you could takeone class again, whichwouldit be?”Othershave a sharperedge and seem to be lookingfor thebigscoop:“Howdoesit feel tobe a line item in somany people’s narratives of

privilegeandoppression?”Idon’thaveagoodanswer.

I look around for asympathetic face beforemuttering, “There are someworseguysthanme.”

One studentwarnsme thatthere is a protest plannedoutside my lecture tonight,though she can’t seem toexplain exactly what it’sabout. It reminds me of thetime I joined a student

walkout, got up and lefthistory class, hoping all theway that someone would tellmewhereweweregoingandwhy.That night, on the stage of

Finney Chapel, I feeladrenalizedandinchoate, likeIhavesomethingtoproveandnodrivetodoit. I’vebraidedmy hair and I can feel itsliding, slowly but surely,downmyneckinwetclumps.

A favorite professor asksmethoughtful questions, and Ianswer as best I can, withsound bites that haveworkedinthepast.“I feel like I have to bring

up some of the controversysurrounding your work,” hesays.“Okay, bring it up!” I’m

trying to speak from a placeof calm and strength, but itcomesoutmorelikeashriek.

“Bring it up, and tell thoseprotesters tocomein,andwewill talk like adults, not justfreaks with signs! We willtalk to each other and justWORK IT OUT! Because atthe end of the day, we’re allpissed about the same thing,you know? Having to be inschool.”He looks at me blankly.

The audience shifts, withdiscomfort or confusion or

both.Inaninstantitbecomesclear tome that there are noprotesters, probably neverwere. If they plannedsomething, they all bailed.There’sjustme,them.Us.

The nextmorning Ileave at 8:00A.M. Drivingthrough townin the snow, I

see my memories plainly.

There I am in my longsleeping-bagcoat,shufflingtoclasstwentyminuteslateonaTuesdaymorning.ThereIamin what used to be the videostore, piling my arms highwithVHSs.ThereIaminthediner, ordering not one buttwo egg sandwiches. There Iam in the gym, riding anExercyclefromtheearly ’80sand reading a book calledBosnianRape.

AndthereIam,drunkonaspring night, yanking mytamponoutandhurlingitintoa bush outside the church.There I am falling in lovebythe bike rack. There I amslowly realizing my bike hasgonemissing from that samerack, stolen while I wassleeping. There I am callingmy father from the steps ofthe art museum. There I amhalf listening to a professor

when she tells me I need tostart attending class moreregularly.And I’m there, too,dragging a torn sofa into theblack-box theater with my“setdesigner.”IfIhadknownhowmuchI

wouldmiss these sensations Imighthaveexperienced themdifferently, recognized theirshabbyglamour,respectedthetickingclockthatdefinedthisentire experience. I would

haveputasidemyresentment,droppedmydefenses.ImighthaveabasicunderstandingofEuropean history oreconomics.Moreabstractly, Imight feel I had truly beensomewhere, open and porousand hungry to learn. Becausebeing a student was anenviable identity and one Icanonlyreclaimbyattendingcommunitycollegelateinlifefor a bookmaking class or

something.I’vealwayshada talentfor

recognizing when I am in amomentworthbeingnostalgicfor. When I was little, mymother would come homefrom a party, her hair coolfrom the wind, her perfumealmost gone, and her lips afadedred,andshewouldcooat me: “You’re still awake!Hiiii.” And I’d think howbeautiful she was and how I

always wanted to rememberher stepping out of theelevatorinherpea-greenwoolcoat, thirty-nine years old,just like that. Sixteen, lyingon thedockatnightwithmycamp boyfriend, taking tinysips from a bottle of vodka.But school was so essentiallyrepulsive to me, socharacterizedbyadesiretobedone. That’s part of why ithurtssobadtoseeitagain.

Ididn’tdrinkintheessenceoftheclassroom.Ididn’ttakelegible notes or dance allnight.IthoughtIwouldmarrymy boyfriend and grow oldand sick of him. I thought Iwould keep my friends, andwe’d make different, newmemories. None of thathappened. Better thingshappened. Thenwhy am I sosad?

Irememberwhenmyschedulewasasflexibleassheis.

—DRAKE

I WORKED AT THE BABY STORE

forninemonths.Just recently graduated, I

had stormed out of myrestaurant job on a whim,causing my father to yell,“Youcan’tjustdo that!Whatifyouhadchildren?”“Well,thankGodIdon’t!”I

yelledrightback.Atthispoint,Iwaslivingin

a glorified closet at the backof my parents’ loft, a room

theyhadassignedmebecausetheythoughtIwouldgraduateandmove out like a properlyevolving person. The roomhad no windows, and so, inorder to get a glimpse ofdaylight, I had to slide openthedoor tomysister’sbright,airy room. “Go away,” shewouldhiss.I was unemployed. And

while I had a roof over myhead (my parents’) and food

toeat(alsotechnicallytheirs),my days were shapeless, andthe disappointment of thepeople who loved me (myparents) was palpable. I sleptuntil noon, became defensivewhen asked about my plansfor the future, and gainedweight like it was a viableprofession. I was becomingthe kind of adult parentsworryaboutproducing.Ihadbeenambitiousonce.

In college, all I seemed todowas found literary magazineswith inexplicable names andstage experimental black-boxtheaterandjointeams(rugby,ifonlyforadayorso).Iwaseagerandhungry:fornewart,for new friendship, for sex.Despite my ambivalenceaboutacademia,collegewasawonderful gig, thousands ofhours to tend to yourself likeagarden.ButnowIwasback

to zero. No grades. Nosemesters. No CliffsNotes incaseofemergency.Iwaslost.It’s not that I didn’t have

plans. Oh, I had plans. Justnone that these small mindscould understand. My firstideawastobetheassistanttoa private eye. I was alwaysbeing accused of extremenosiness, sowhynot turn thischaracter flaw into cold hardcash?Afterhuntingaroundon

Craigslist, however, it soonbecame clear that mostprivate eyes worked alone—oriftheyneededanassistant,theywantedsomeonewiththekind of sensual looks to baitcheating husbands. Thesecond ideawas baker.Afterall, I lovebreadandallbreadby-products. But no, thatinvolved waking up at foureverymorning.And knowinghow to bake. What about

preschool art teacher? Turnsout that involved more thanjust a passion for pastanecklaces.Therewouldbenorom-com-readyjobforme.

The only silver lining in mysituation was that it allowedme to reconnect with myoldest friends, Isabel and

Joana. We were all back inTribeca, the sameneighborhood where we hadmet in preschool. Isabel wasfinishinghersculpturedegree,living with an aging pugnamedHamletwho had oncehad his head run over by atruckandsurvived.Joanahadjustcompletedart schoolandwas sporting the festiveremainsofableachedmullet.I had broken up with the

hippieboyfriendIconsideredmy bridge to health andwholeness and was editing a“feature film” on my laptop.Isabel was living in herfather’s old studio,which shehad decorated with foundobjects, standing racks ofchildren’s Halloweencostumes, and a TV from1997. When the three of usmettheretocatchup,Joana’snailspaintedlikeweedleaves

andMonets,Ifeltatpeace.Isabel was employed at

Peachand theBabke,ahigh-end children’s clothing storeinourneighborhood.Isabelisatrueeccentric—nottheself-conscious kind who collectsfeathers and snow globes butthe kind whose passions andpredilectionsaresogenuinelyoutof syncwith theworld atlargethatsheherselfbecomesanobject of fascination.One

day Isabel had strolled intothe storeonadare to inquireaboutemployment,essentiallybecause it was the funniestthingshecouldimaginedoingfor a living. Wearingkneesocksandaman’sshirtasa dress, she had beensomewhatdismayedwhenshewasofferedajobonthespot.Joana joined her there a fewweeks later, when themadnessof theyearlysample

salerequiredextrahands.“It’saball,”saidIsabel.“Imean, it’s awfully easy,”

saidJoana.Peach and the Babke sold

baby clothes at such a highprice point that customerswould often laugh out loudupon glimpsing a tag.Cashmere cardigans, rattytutus, and fine-wale cords,sized six months to eightyears.Thisiswhereyoucame

if you wanted your daughtertolooklikeaDorotheaLangephotooryoursontoresemblea jaunty old-time trainconductor, all oversizeoverallsandperkywoolcaps.Itwill be amiracle if any oftheboyswhoworePeachandthe Babke emerged fromchildhoodabletomaintainanerection.We often spent Isabel’s

lunch break in Pecan, a local

coffeebarwherewedisturbedyuppies on laptops with ourincessant—and filthy—chatter.“I can’t find a goddamn

fuckingjobandI’mtoofattobe a stripper,” I said as Ipolishedoffastalecroissant.

Isabelpausedasifcontemplating anadvanced theorem,thenlitup.“WeneedanothergirlatPeach!

We do, we do, we do!” Itwould be a gas, she toldme.It’d be like our own secretclubhouse. “You can get tonsof free ribbons!” It was suchaneasyjob.Allyouhadtodowas fold, wrap, and ministerto the rich and famous.“That’s allwe did as kids, benice to art collectors so ourparentscouldpayourtuition,”Isabel said. “You’ll beamazingatit.”

Thenextday, I stoppedbywithacopyofmyrésuméandmet Phoebe, the manager ofthestore,wholookedlikethesaddest fourth-grader youever met but was, in reality,thirty-two and none toopleased about it. She wasbeautiful likeaGibsongirl,apale round face, heavy lids,and rosy lips. She wiped herhandsonherplaidpinafore.“Why did you leave your

lastjob?”sheasked.“I was hooking up with

someone in the kitchen andthedessertchefwasabitch,”Iexplained.

“Icanpayyouonehundreddollarsaday,cash,”shesaid.

“Sounds good.” I wassecretly thrilled, both at thesalary and the prospect ofspending every day with myoldest and most amusingfriends.

“We also buy you luncheveryday,”Phoebesaid.

“The lunch is awesome!”Isabel chimed in, spreadingsomepint-sizedleatherglovesthat retailed for $155 out inthe display case next to abroken vintage camera (priceuponrequest).

“I’min,”Isaid.ForreasonsI will never understand butdid not question, Phoebehandedmetwenty-fivedollars

fortheinterviewitself.And with that, Peach and

the Babke became the mostpoorly staffed store in thehistoryoftheworld.

The days at Peach and theBabke followed a certainrhythm. With only onewindowup front, itwas hard

togetasenseoftimepassing,and so life became asedentary,ifpleasant,massofrisottoandtinyoveralls.ButIwill reconstruct it for you asbestasIcan:

10:10Rollinthedoorwithacoffeeinyourhand.Ifyou’refeelingnice,youalsobringoneforPhoebe.“SorryI’mlate,”yousaybeforeflingingyourcoat

onthefloor.10:40Headintotheback

roomtostartcasuallyfoldingsomepima-cottonbabyleggings($55to$65)androll-neckfishermansweaters($175).

10:50GetdistractedtellingJoanaastoryaboutahomelessguyyousawwearingasaladspinnerasahat.

11:10Firstcustomerringsthe

bell.Theyareeitherfreezingandlookingtobrowsebeforetheirnextappointmentorobscenelyrichandabouttopurchasefivethousanddollars’worthofgiftsfortheirnieces.YouandJoanatrytodothebestwrappingjobyoucanandtocalculatethetaxproperly,butthereisagoodchanceyouchargedthemanextrafivehundred

dollars.11:15Starttalkingaboutlunch.Howbadlyyouwantordon’twantit.Howgooditwillbewhenitfinallyhitsyourlipsor,alternately,howlittlemindyouevenpaytofoodthesedays.

11:25Callnextdoorforthespecials.

12:00Isabelarrives.SheisonaschedulecalledPrincessHours.Whenyouaskif

youcanalsoworkPrincessHours,Phoebesays,“No,they’reforprincesses.”

12:30Sitdownforanelaboratethree-coursemeal.LetPhoebetryyourcouscous,sinceit’stheleastyoucando.SplitabaguettewithIsabelifyoucanhavehalfherbutternutsquashsoup.Eatapotoffreshricottatofinishitoff.

1:00Joanaleavesfortherapy.

1:30TheUPSguycomesandunloadsboxesofragdollsmadeofvintagecurtains($320).Youaskhimhowhissonisdoing.Hesayshe’sinjail.

2:00Isabelleavesfortherapy.2:30MegRyancomesin

wearingalargehat,buysnothing.

3:00Phoebeasksyoutorubherheadforawhile.Sheliesontherugintheback

andmoanswithpleasure.Acustomerringsthedoorbell.Shesaystoignoreit,andwhenhermassageisdoneshesendsyouaroundthecornerforcappuccinoandbrownies.

4:00Youleavefortherapy,collectingyourhundreddollars.

6:00Thisisthetimeworkwasactuallysupposedtoend,butyouarealready

home,halfasleep,waitingforJeffRuiztofinishhislandscapingjobandmeetyouontheroofofhisbuildingtodrinkbeerandfeeleachotherup.OnlyonceinninemonthsdoesPhoebeadmonishyouforyourpoorworkethic,andshefeelssoguiltyaboutitthatatlunchshegoesacrossthestreetandbuysyouascentedcandle.

Phoeberanthestorewithhermother, Linda, though Lindaspent most of her time inPennsylvaniaor,ifshewasinthe city, upstairs in theapartment she kept, smokingandeatingpopcornfromabigmetalbowl.AsthoughtfulandconflictedasPhoebewas,hermother was so wild her hair

stoodonend.Phoebehandledthe practicalities of thebusiness, while Lindaconceived designs sofantastical that rather thansketch them she would justwave ribbons and scraps intheair,outliningasweaterora tutu. Phoebe and Linda’sfights had a tendency to turnrabid and ranged from small-business issues to the veryfiberoftheircharacters.

“All my friends weregetting abortions!” shescreamed. Linda often spokeof her former life in SanFrancisco, prechildren, autopia of knitwear designersand early Westernpractitioners of yoga whosupported and inspired oneanother. The money wasgood, and the sex was evenbetter.Astheyfought,IsabelandI

(orJoanaandI,asitwasrareweallworkedatonce)wouldlook at each other nervously,shrug, then proceed to try onallthedresseswecarriedinachild’ssize8,whosehemlineshit right below our crotches(aka just right). Anothercommon distraction was tocover our heads in rabbit-furbarrettes ($16) or strap eachother up with ribbons likesome ersatz Helmut Newton

photograph.Sometimes I

would findPhoebe crying bythe air conditioner, head onthe desk where she kept herold PC, staring at a pile ofunpaidbills.Thefactwasthestore was in trouble. Therecession was in full swingand, in times of economichardship, high-end children’sclothing is the first thing to

go. We felt a deep andimpenetrable sadness whenwewatchedahip-hopmogul’scredit card get declined, asure sign of doom for Peachand the Babke—and for theworld.

Every day we hoped for abig sale, and every day wewatched Phoebe’s browfurrow as she went over thebooks, and every night wetook our one-hundred-dollar

billhomewithoutreservation.

The job allowed us a lot oftimeforsocializing.TogetherwewerefindingourownNewYork,which lookeda lot liketheNewYorkofourparents.We went to art openings forthe free wine and Christmaspartiesforthefreefood,then

peeled off to smoke pot onIsabel’s couch and watchreruns of Seinfeld. Westopped by parties where wedidn’t know the host, woreskirts as tube tops and tightsas pants. We split bowls ofBolognese at chic restaurantsrather than get full meals atboring ones. A night ofcarousing never passedwithout me stepping outsidethe experience to think, Yes,

this must be what it is to beyoung.Upongraduation

I had felt a heavysense of doom, asense that nothingwould ever besimple again. Butlook, look what we hadfound! We were making itwork, with our cash and ourbad wrapping jobs, with ourfried overdyed hair and our

fried overprocessed foods.Everything took on a hazyromance: having a pimple,eatingadoughnut,beingcold.Nothing was a tragedy, andeverything was a joke. I hadwaited a long time to be awoman,alongtimetoventureaway from my parents, andnowIhadsex,oncewithtwoguys in a week, and braggedabout it like a divorcée whowasgettingbackinthegame.

Uptomyknees inmudfroma night on the town, I rinsedoff in the shower as Isabelwatched and said, “Handle it,dirtygirl!”I didn’t know theword for

it, but I was happy. I washappy wrapping presents,catering to listless bankers’wives, and locking the storeup with a rusty key a fewminutesbeforeclosingtime.Iwas happy being slightly

condescending topeoplewithplatinum cards, reveling inour status as shopgirls whoknew more than we werelettingon.Wewouldstayherein our cave, looking out onTribeca through the picturewindow,andonweekendswewould trip up the West SideHighway in red dresses,sloshing beer, ready to fuckand fight and fall asleep ontopofoneanother.

But ambition is a funnything: it creeps in when youleast expect it and keeps youmoving,evenwhenyou thinkyouwanttostayput.Imissedmakingthings, themeaningitgave this long march we calllife.Onenight,aswereadiedourselves for another eventwhere we weren’t exactlywelcome, it occurred to me:Thisissomething.Whydidn’twe tell this story, instead of

just living it? The story ofchildren of the art worldtrying (and failing) to matchtheir parents’ successes,unsure of their own passions,but sure they wanted glory.Why didn’t we make awebseries (at that point, theInternetwebserieswaspoisedto replace film, television,radio, and literature) aboutcharactersevenmorepatheticthanwewere?

We never made it to theparty that night. Instead weordered pizza, curled up ineasy chairs, and beganpitching names and locationsand plotlines into the night.We ransacked Isabel’s closetforpossiblecostumepieces(abeaded flapper dress, aDudley Do-Right hat), andJoana conceived the hairstylethat would be her character’ssignature (a sleek beehive

builtaroundashampoobottleforheight).Andso,usingthemoney that Peach and theBabke provided,we began tocreate something that wouldreflect the manic energy ofthismoment.It was called Delusional

Downtown Divas, a title wehated but couldn’t top. IsabelportrayedAgNess,anaspiringbusinesswomanwithapassionforpowersuits.Joanawasthe

enigmatic Swann, a privateperformance artist. Mycharacter, Oona Winegrod,was an aspiring novelist whohad never actually written aword. All of them wereobsessedwithayoungpainternamed Jake Pheasant. Wecompletedtenepisodes,manyof which featured cameosfromourparents’friends,whostill viewed us as childrendoing an adorable class

project.Lookingat thevideosnow,

they leave something to bedesired.Blaringlydigital,withshakycamerawork,wecareenacross the screen in messycostumes, cracking up at ourown jokes, tickled with theingenuity of our concept.Lineslike“Ijustknowwecanjointhefeministartcollectiveifweputourminds to it andwe will finally be IT girls!”

arealittletoorealtofeellikeparody.ThefirsttimeIshowedmy

father the footage, we weresitting at our dining roomtable. He took a long sip oftea,thenasked,“Whydidyouhave to do this?”And yes, itwasbroad,amateurish,alittlevulgar.Itdidn’thavenarrativepropulsion or cinematicgraces.Butwatchingitnow,Icanalsofeelthegiddiness,the

joy of creation we were allexperiencing, the catharsis ofadmitting to our situation. Itjumpsoffthescreen.It’ssillyand obvious and high on itsown supply, but it’ssomething.It’sastepforward.People who weren’t my

fatherkindoflovedit,andwewere invited to present thevideos in a small gallery onGreene Street in Soho. In anattempt to remain staunchly

rooted in the conceptual, wedecided to decorate thegallery like a replica ofIsabel’sapartment.Wehauledall our worldly possessionsacrossCanalStreet, includinga treadmill, Isabel’s couch,and some family heirlooms.We pulled all-nighters,decorating thespace lovingly,and I insisted on wearingpainter’s overalls tocomplement my new identity

asaseriousartiste.Thenightofour“opening”

remains among the mostsurprising of my life: by thetime I arrived (I was late, asmymotherinsistedIshower),the space was full, and thecrowd was spilling into thestreet, wine in cups, feet inpirate boots and fluorescentheels. People we didn’t evenknowwere there, a testamenttotheideathatenergyattracts

energy, because our parentssure as hell weren’tadvertising.Someoneaskedtotake our photograph. Isabeland Joana and I clutched atoneanother,unabletobelieveour luck. We went to a barafterward, and aDJ gavemehisbusinesscardinawaythatcould have been sexual. Wehadmadeit.

After that, life at Peach andthe Babke lost some of itsluster.Workinducedasleepymalaise, and I wondered if Ihadrecontractedmono.Joanagotsomeillustrationworkandcut back on her hours. Isabelfound increasing reasons notto appear. The walk acrossHudson Street to open the

store began to feel a littletragic.Thenoneday,Ibotchedthe

mailing list. I was meant tosend out one thousandpostcards heralding oursummer sample sale. But,caughtupinareverie,Ididn’tnotice I had printed fivehundred address stickers forone single familyandappliednearly all of them. My errorwassoshockingtoLindathat

her nostrils flared and spitflewasshescreamedatme.

“I’msorry,”Itoldher.“ButIhaveabustocatch.”

I boarded a Greyhound toIthacatoseeacollegefriend,the kind of purposeless tripyouwillnevertakeagainafteragetwenty-five.Wespenttheweekend walking in fields,taking pictures of old-fashioned neon signs with adisposable camera, and

watching carp spawn in ariver. We ate nothing buthummus and drank nothingbut beer. We went to hisneighbor’s funeral and sat inthe back row and got thegiggles, sprinted out. Wewalked around his mother’sgarden, crushing living thingswithourboots.“How’s your job?” he

asked.“Mybossissuchabitch,”I

toldhim.I projected onto his life a

sweetness, a lack ofcomplication,thekindofvibeterrible people would call“quaint.”Ilovedhisbasementapartment in a ramshacklehouse, the fact that therewasonlyoneChineserestaurantintown,andthathe’dneverhaveto see a more successfulpersonthanhimselfataparty.Iwas jealous. Iwanted to be

init.Iwantedtofuckitup.So, on the night before I

left, I drank half a whiskeyginger and hurled my nakedbody onto his, kissing him inan unfocused but enthusiasticway.Herespondedwithasadsmile, and we fucked in theblue light of a documentaryabout police brutality. Wedidn’t speak for a year, but Ithought of his house all thetime.

In September of 2009 theDelusional Downtown Divaswereofferedourfirstrealgig:hosting the Guggenheim’sFirstAnnualArtAwards.Ourparentswereshockedthatthislarkhadbroughtanyoneevenremotely serious knocking onour door, but I’ve alwaysbelieved that it turns peopleontogetmadefunof,andthe

art world was no exception.We were offered license torunwildandafive-thousand-dollar fee to split among us.WeallquitourjobsatPeachand the Babke that day withthe joyful abandon of lotterywinners.I rented a hundred-square-

foot office in a nearbybuilding, which became ourofficial headquarters, and setto work. The building was

populated with younghandsome filmmakers inporkpiehatsandprofessionalswho couldn’t quite explainwhat they did. People builthalf-pipesintheirofficesandencouraged interofficesleepovers. Everyone boughttheir lunch fromadeli calledNew Fancy Food. Thelandlord, a Chinese womannamed Summer Weinberg,askedsweetlywhetherIwasa

prostitute.Ourminifridgehadnothingbuttreslechescakeinit.We spent months

preparing, creating newepisodes and writing awards-show-style banter aboutfigureslikeperformanceartistJoan Jonas (“Is she the JonasBrothers’mother?”).We shotan episode in the museumitself and were almostremoved after I encouraged

Isabeltohangherlegoverthemezzanine and scream, “I’mgonna pull a Carl Andre uphere!”

The awards themselveswere a blur.We awoke earlyand traveled uptown to haveour hair styled professionallyfor the first time.Wehitourmarks and heard our voicesecho up to the rotunda. WesawJamesFranco, somethingthatnowseemshardtoavoid.

During intermission Isabeland I got into a tearful fightwhen I told a makeup artistthat Isabel “ought to own astore.”“You don’t believe inme,”

she said. “You don’t think Iknowhowtodoanythingreal,which is the only reason youwould ever tell someone toopenastore.”“Yes, I do. Look at all

this!”Icried.

“Yeah, butwe’re not goingto,like,dothisforour lives,”Joanasaid.In the months that

followed,wedispersed:metoLos Angeles, Joana tograduate school, Isabel toupstateNewYork,whereshemet aman named Jasonwitha sweet smile and noconnection to the art worldwhatsoever. We took thevideoswe hadmade together

off the Internet, embarrassedby the things we had oncethoughtsoprofound.

“What’s the worst jobyou’veeverhad?”isapopularquestion in interviews and atdinnerparties.

“Oncemybossyelledatmefor giving Gwyneth Paltrowthe wrong size in babyleggings,”Isay,wincingatthememory.What I don’t say isthat it felt like home, that it

started our journey, that weate the best lunches I’ve everhad.WhatIdon’tsayisthatImissit.

1.Deathiscomingforusall.

2.Therearenobadthoughts,onlybadactions.

3.“Men,watchout:theladiesarecomingforyourtoys.”

4.Confidenceletsyoupullanythingoff,evenTevaswithsocks.

5.Allchildrenareamazingartists.It’sthegrown-upsyouhavetoworryabout.

6.Unhappyataparty?Sayyou’regoingtocheckonyourcar,thenexitswiftly.Makeeyecontactwithnoone.

7.Drunkemotionsaren’trealemotions.

8.Asweetpotatopreparedinthemicrowave,thenslatheredwithflaxseedoil,makesforanexceptionalsnack.

9.It’snevertoolatetolearn.

10.“TheVolvoisbadenough.I’mnotputtingacoatonthe

fuckingdog.”

11.Arisingtideliftsallboats.

12.Thatbeingsaid,it’shorriblewhenpeopleyouhategetthingsyouwant.

13.Hittingacreativewall?Takeabreakfromworktowatchaprocedural.Theyalwayssolvethecase,andso

willyou.

14.Youdon’tneedtobeflamboyantinyourlifetobeflamboyantinyourwork.

15.WearasuittotheDMVtospeedthingsalongabit.

16.Donotmakejokesaboutconcealingdrugs,weapons,orcurrencyinfrontofpolice

officersorTSAworkers.Thereisnothingfunnyaboutbeingdetained.

17.It’sallabouttailoring.

DearBlankenBlankstein,RememberwhenIraninto

youlastsummeratthecoffeeplacenearyourhouse?Iwaswithabunchofguysfrommyworkandyouwerewithsomeguysfromyours.Someofthemwore“wifebeaters”andlookedlikewifebeaters.IwasrenderedspeechlessbyyourtangledRipVanWinklebeard,whichIdidn’tgetcloseenoughtosmellbutcanimaginepresentsmassivehygienechallenges.Itclearly

tookmajorefforttogrow,andthatisthebiggestsignalI’vereceivedtodatethatyouremotionalequilibriumisoff.IshooklikeadrydrunkbecauseIwassoscaredyou’dyellatmeforthethingIwroteaboutyou.Isaidsorryalotthatday.Yourexpressionwassostormy,Ijustwantedtocalmyoudown.Plus,Iwastryingtobeadultaroundmycoworkers,aconceptyou

wouldknownothingabout,youcoke-noseddick-swinger.ButI’mactuallynotsorryat

all.Youweren’tkindtome,soIhavenothingtobesorryabout.I’msickofsayingstuffIdon’tmean.Asyouwere,Lenap.s.Allmyworkfriendsthoughtyoulookedlikeapuppetofahipster.YourpantsaresohighwaistedI

couldcry.Idon’tcarewhatyourworkfriendsthoughtofme.Ihadn’tshoweredinfourdaysandIstillhaveaboyfriendlastIchecked.

DearDr.Blank,Myeardrumwaspunctured,youWHITECOAT.Andyoutreatedmelikeapsychowithalittlescrape,likean

exhaustingroadblockbetweenyouandyourlunch.Icriedwhenyoupouredthesolutiondownmyearholeandyoujustheldmeinplace.Ihadtobegforpainkillerslikeajunkie.Whogaveyoualicense?Thishassincebecomemymosttraumaticmemory,usurpingtheprematuredeathofafriendandthetimeIsawawomanwithagapingpinkholewherehernoseoughtto

be.Iresentthat.Lena

DearMrs.Blank,Youareliterallyschizophrenic,soit’sfutiletoansweryouremail,BUTIgottasay:youarebananas.Iunderstandthatyoucomefromagenerationofwomenwhohadtoworkhardtobe

heard,butforyoutoimpugnmyfeminismandactasthoughI’mascourgeuponwomeneverywhere,justbecauseIrefusetospreadyourparticularagenda?That’sdark,andit’snotwhatyoufoughtfor.Ifyoucontinuethisway,you’reworsethantheyare(they=men).Wearealljusttryingtogetby.Thereisroomforallofus.Also,“cudgeled”isn’tawordpeople

use.I’mgoingtoliveatleastfiftyyearspastyou.Sincerely,Lena

DearBlanka,Rememberwhenyousaidyou“forgave”meformymovie?Well,Idon’tforgiveyouforsayingthat.IamsorrythatIquestionedwhetheryouwere

areallesbian.Thatwaslameofmeandyouclearlyarealesbian.Ilovelesbians.Butyouknowwhatelseislame?Yourneonoveralls.D.J.TannercalledandshewantsherwardrobebacksoitcanbeincludedinamuseumretrospectiveabouttheprimeyearsofFullHouse.Ugh,getittogether!LD

DearBlankyBlankham,Wehadbeenfriendssincefourthgrade.Youusedtobringflowerstomyscreendoor,takemeoutonthelakeinyourdinghy,showmehowtocatchfrogs.Wehadachildhoodtogether.SowhenIgaveyouablowjob(MYFIRST)onthedaymycatdied,youshouldhavecalled.Yourtotaldisappearancemadesomanysweet

memoriesfeelsogrimy.IfoundoutaboutyourfiancéeonFacebook.Howmanyinchestallerthanyouisshe?Like,ten?Thefactthatthegovernmentletsyouflyplanesseemsinsane.Yourlittlefriend,Lenap.s.Ineverpickedupthecat’sashesbecauseIassociateditwithgivingblowjobsandbeingabandoned.WhenI

finallygotupthecouragetocollectthemtwoyearslater,theyhadbeenthrownintoamassgrave.Iblameyou.

THIS IS THE NAME of the

memoir I’m going to writewhen I’m eighty. You know,once everyone I’ve met inHollywoodisdead.Itwillbealookbackatan

era when women inHollywood were treated likethepaperthingiesthatprotectglasses in hotel bathrooms—necessary but infinitelydisposable.It will be excerpted in

VanityFairalongwithphotos

ofme laughing at a long-agopremiere,wearingapom-pomstrappedtomyhead,sippingacran and seltzer, subtlypregnant withmy first set oftwins.It will be endorsed by the

female president, and I’llenjoy a real surge inpopularity with college girlswriting term papers on thehistoryofthegendergap.Ican’twaittobeeighty.

So I can have an“oeuvre”—or at least a“filmography.”So I can impress my

grandkids with my broochcollection.SoIcansendthingsbackin

restaurantswithoutshameanduse a wheelchair at theairport.So I can shock people by

saying “rim job” in casualconversation.

So I can dye my bowl cutorange.And so I can namenames.

Delicious, vengeful names.And Iwon’t give a shit aboutdoing battle with someone’sestate because I’ll be eightyand,quitepossibly,theownerofseventeenswans.I’lltelleveryoneaboutwhat

the men I met in Hollywoodsaidtomethatfirstwhirlwindyear:

“Ijustwanttoprotectyou.”“Iknowwe justmet,but I

consideryouaclosefriend.”“You’reafunnygirl.”“You’reacleverkid.”“I’llbetyouneversayno.”“You should be a little

moregrateful.”“You’re prettier than you

letyourselfbe.”“I hope your boyfriend

makes you feel good. Youhaveaboyfriend,don’tyou?”

“You know, a lot of mencan’t handle a powerfulwoman.…”“You’ve grown very cute

sinceIlastranintoyou.”I’ll recount all the

interactions where I wentfrom having an engagingconversation on craft with aman to hearing about hissexualdissatisfactionwithhiswife, who used tobepassionateand iscurrently

on fertility drugs. Suddenly,we’re talking about the wayhis college girlfriend left herbootsonwhenshefuckedandhowmarriageis“alotofhardwork.”

What thattranslatestois:Mywife doesn’t turnme on and youaren’t a model but

you sure are young andprobably some bold new

sexual moves have emergedsince the last timeIwassinglein1992so let’s try itand thenyou can go back to beingmarried to yourwork and I’llgobacktobeingmarriedtoan“eco-friendly interiordecorator”andI’llneverwatchanyofyourfilmsagain.I’ll talk about how I never

fuckedanyofthem.Ifuckedguys who lived in vans, guyswho shared illegal lofts with

their ex-girlfriends who wereaway at Coachella, guys whowere into indigenous plantlife, and guys who watchedPBS.ButIneverfuckedthem.I’lltalkaboutthewaythese

relationshipsfellapartassoonastheyrealizedIwasn’tgoingto be anyone’s protégée, pet,private fan club, or eagerplus-one.The subtle accusation:

“You’re not so easy to trackdown.”The sensitive inquiry:

“What’s goin’ on here,honey?”The rageful indictment:

“You’reabullshitliar.Doesn’tanyone your age have anyfuckingmanners?”Myfriend Jennicalls them

Sunshine Stealers. Men whohave been at it a little toolong,whoaretiredoftheride

but can’t get off. They’relookingforsomenewformofenergy, of approval. It’slinked with sex, but it’s notthe same.What they want totake from you is way worsethanyourthonginthebackoftheir Lexus. It’s ideas,curiosity,anexcitementaboutgettingupinthemorningandmakingthings.“Oh,” she’ll tellmewhen I

mentiontheonlyguyI talked

to at a boring dinner party.“AnotherSunshineStealer.”“That one,” she says about

a seemingly charmingvisionary. “He’s the OGSunshineStealer.”When I’m eighty, I’ll

describe the time I satwithadirector in his hotel suitewhile he toldme girls love itwhen you “direct” their blowjobs.“Oh, wow,” I answered. I

mean, how else do youanswer?“I don’t know,” he said.

“Theyjustdigit.”I’ll describe the pseudo-

date I went on with a manwhoseworkIadmired.Iworea white dress with only onestain, and we barreleddowntown in a cab, and Ileaned back against the tornpleatherseatandthought,I’vereallydoneit,I’magrown-ass

womannow.Andat4:00A.M.

when I tried to kiss him hestayed stone faced. I hit hisside mouth, and I turned onmy heels and took off downtheblockataspeedI’veneverachieved before or since. Ifelt soashamed.Myfirstandonlymisstepofthiskind,andhe’d be able to tell them all:She’s weak, she’s just like therestofthem.Shewantsit.I’ll describe another, even-

older filmmaker and how,followinghimdownthestreetafteradrink,Irealizedthathelimped a little, unexplained.AndI’lldescribetheemailhewrote me after I said Icouldn’t work on his filmbecauseIwasmakingmyownshow. “How could youdismiss thisopportunity tobeasmallpartofafilmthatwillbetaughtincollegesforyearsto come in exchange for the

utter ephemera of a ‘TVPilot.’ ” In quotes! He put itINQUOTES!

AndIreadtheemail again andagain, shocked,jawsetwithragesothatIcouldn’tmake a sound.

AndIimaginedmyownpain,my anger,magnified by fiftyin the man who would sendthat email, the person who

believesthatlifeisazero-sumgameandgirlsaretheretobeyourprops, that anyoneelse’sartistry is a mere distractionfromtheLord’sgrandplantopromote your agenda. Howpainful that must be, howsuffocating. And I decidedthen that I will never bejealous. I will never bevengeful. I won’t bethreatened by the old, or bythenew. I’ll openwide like a

daisy every morning. I willmakemywork.

I’ve imagined the SunshineStealers, around a longconference table like themembers of the Cabinet, indialogue about me. She’s slyand manipulative, one says.She’ll do anything to getwhatshe wants, says another. Youhave to be a hell of a lotprettier than that to fuck yourway to the top. An especially

oldonechimesin:Ihadsomegreattimeswithher,man,nicegirl,wonderwhat’llbecomeofher.But the scariest thought of

all is the one that pushedmeto keep making contact wellpast the point that I becameuncomfortable, to try andprovemyselfagainandagain.The reason I didn’t stopanswering their calls, that Irushed to drinks dates that

werepastmybedtimeandhadconversations that didn’tinterestmeandforcedmyselftositatthetablelongafterI’dgrown uncomfortable. ThethoughtIworkedsovigilantlyto ensure they would neverentertain: She’s silly. She’s nothreat.Myfriend,awomanwhom

I admire for her independentspirit, told me she had asimilar experience. “I made

my first movie and all thesemen crawled out of thewoodwork, lookingfor … something.” She wasonce a punk. The real kind,not the kind who buys herclothes at themall. “But theydidn’t get it: I’m not here tomake friends with you. I’mheretodestroyyou.”

I told her Iwas out of thedanger zone now, but for amoment there my phone

ringingat2:00A.M.becameaninstrumentofterror.Whohadmy number that didn’t knowhowtouseitappropriately?Amessage, delivered in lowtones:“Ifyouhaveamoment,I’dlovetotalk.You’reagoodlistener.”

You know why I listened?Because I wanted it so bad.Because Iwanted to learn, togrowandtostay.

Oh, look, they said to

themselves, it’s a cute littledirector-shapedthing.JustwaituntilI’meighty.

IAMEIGHTandIamafraidofeverything.

Thelistof thingsthatkeepmeupatnightincludes,butisnot limited to: appendicitis,typhoid, leprosy, uncleanmeat, foods I haven’t seenemergefromtheirpackaging,foodsmymotherhasn’ttastedfirst so that ifwe diewe dietogether, homeless people,headaches, rape, kidnapping,milk,thesubway,sleep.An assistant teacher comes

toschoolwithbloodshoteyes,

and I am convinced he’sinfectedwithEbola.Iwaitforblood to trickle from his earor for him to just fall downdead. I stop touching myshoelaces (too filthy) orhugging adults outside ofmyfamily. In school, we arelearningaboutHiroshima,soIread Sadako and theThousandPaperCranes and Iknow instantly that I haveleukemia. A symptom of

leukemia is dizziness and Ihave that, when I sit up toofastor spinaround incircles.So I quietly prepare to die inthenextyearorso,dependingon how fast the diseaseprogresses.My parents are getting

worried. It’s hard enough tohaveachild,muchlessachildwho demands to inspect ourgroceries and medicines forevidence that their protective

seals have been tamperedwith. I have only the vaguestmemoryofa lifebeforefear.Every morning when I wakeupthereisoneblissfulsecondbeforeIlookaroundtheroomand remember my dailyterrors. I wonder if this iswhat it will always be like,forever, and I try toremember moments I feltsafe: In bed next to mymother one Sunday morning.

Playing with Isabel’s puppy.Getting picked up from asleepoverjustbeforebedtime.One night my father

becomes so frustrated bymybehavior thathe takesawalkand doesn’t come back forthreehours.Whilehe’sgone,Istart to plan our life withouthim.My fourth-grade teacher,

Kathy, is my best friend atschool. She’s a plump, pretty

woman with hair like yellowpipe cleaners. Her clothesresemble the sheets at mygrandma’s house, threadbareflorals with mismatchedbuttons.ShesaysIcanaskheras many questions as I want:about tidal waves, about mysinuses, about nuclear war.She offers vague, reassuringanswers. In hindsight theywere tinged with religion,implied a faith in a distinctly

Christian God. She can tellwhen I’m getting squirrelly,and she shoots me a lookacross the room that says, It’sokay, Lena, just give it asecond.When I’m not with Kathy

I’mwithTerriMangiano, ourschool nurse,who has a buzzcut and a penchant forwearing holiday sweaters allyear round. She has a no-nonsense approach to health

that comforts me. Shepresents me with statistics(only 2 percent of childrendevelop Reye’s syndrome inresponse to aspirin) and tellsme that polio has beeneradicated. She takes meseriously when I explain thatI’ve been exposed to scarletfeverbyakidon the subwaywith a red face. Sometimessheletsmelieonthetopbunkin the back room, dark and

cool. I restmy cheek againsttheplasticmattresscoverandlisten to her administer pillsand pregnancy tests to highschool girls. If I’m lucky, shedoesn’tsendmebacktoclass.

No one likes the way thingsare going so, at some point,therapy is suggested. I am

used to appointments:allergist, chiropractor, tutor.All I want is to feel better,and thatoverrides the fearofsomething new, somethingreserved for people who arecrazy. Plus, both my parentshave therapists, and I feelmore like my parents thananybody else. My father’stherapist is named Ruth. I’venever met her, but I askedhim to describe her to me

once. He said she was older,but not as old as Grandma,with longish gray hair. Inmyhead, her office has nowindows, it’s just a box withtwo chairs. I wonder whatRuth thinksofme.Hehas tohavesaidsomething.“Can’t I just see Ruth?” I

ask.Heexplainsthatitdoesn’tworkthatway,thatIneedmyown place to have my ownprivatethoughts.SoItakethe

trainuptownwithhimtomeetsomeone of my own. Forsome reason, when we go toappointments to help mymind, it’s always my fatherwho comes. My mothercomes to the ones for mybody.The first doctor, a violet-

haired grandma-aged womanwithaGermansurname,asksme a few simple questionsand then invites me to play

with the toys scattered acrossher floor. She sits in a chairaboveme,padinhand.Ihavethe sense she will gather allkinds of information fromthis, so I put on a show thatI’m surewill demonstratemyloneliness and introspection:Bootleg Barbie crashes herconvertible with off-brandKen riding shotgun. TinyLegomenarekilled in awaragainst their own kind. After

a long period of observation,sheasksmetosharemythreegreatest wishes. “A river,where I can be alone,” I tellher, impressed with my ownpoeticism. From this answer,she will know that I am notlikeothernine-year-olds.“Andwhatelse?”sheasks.“That’sall.”I leave feeling worse than

whenIwentin,andmyfathersaysthat’sokay,wecanseeas

many doctors as we need tountil I’mbetter.Nextwevisitadifferentwoman,evenolderthanthefirst,butshe’snamedAnnie, which is not an oldperson’s name. We walk upfour or five flights to heroffice,whichisalsoherlivingroom.Myfathersitswithmethistimeandhelpsmeexplainthe things that worry me.Annie is sympathetic, with afunny high laugh, and when

wewalkout intothenightonBank Street, I tell my fathersheistheone.Butweare justhere toget

areferral,myfathertellsme.Annieisretiring.And somy third session is

withRobyn.Robyn’sofficeisdown the block from ourapartment and, sensing sometrepidation, my mother pullsmeasideandsays to thinkofit like a play date. If I like

playing with her, I can goback. If not, we’ll findsomeone else for me to playwith. I nod, but I’m wellaware that most play datesdon’trevolvearoundsomeonetrying to figure out whetheryou’recrazyornot.

In our first session, Robynsitson thefloorwithme,herlegs tucked under her likeshe’s just a friend who hascome by to hang out. She

looks like the mom on atelevisionshow,withbigcurlyhair and a silky blouse. Sheasksme how old I am, and Irespond by asking her howold she is—after all, we’resitting on the floor together.“Thirty-four,” she says. Mymother was thirty-six when Iwas born. Robyn is differentfrom my mother in lots ofways, starting with herclothes: a skirt-suit, sheer

tights, and clean black highheels. Different from mymother, who looks like hernormal self when she dressesasawitchforHalloween.Robyn lets me ask her

whatever Iwant.Shehas twodaughters. She lives uptown.She’s Jewish. Her middlename is Laura, and herfavoritefoodiscereal.Bythetime I leave, I think that shecouldfixme.

Thegermophobiamorphsintohypochondria morphs intosexualanxietymorphsintothepain and angst thataccompany entry into middleschool.Overtime,RobynandI develop a shorthand forthings I’mtooembarrassed tosay: “Masturbation” becomes“M,” “sexuality” becomes

“ooality,” and my crushesbecome“him.”Idon’tliketheterm “gray area,” as in “thegray area between beingscared and aroused,” soRobyn coins “the pink area.”We eventuallymove into heradultofficebutstaysittingonthe floor.We’ll often share abox of Special K or acroissant.

She teaches me how toneedlepoint, abstract

geometricdesignsinautumnalthreads.When I turn thirteenshe throws me a privateatheisticBatMitzvah—justustwo—where we eat half apoundofprosciutto.She tellsme that soon she’ll be gettinga real Bat Mitzvah, eventhoughshe’salmostfortynow.

One evening I see her onthe subway, and ourinteraction, warm butdisorienting, inspires a poem,

the last linesofwhichare: “Iguessyouarenotmymother.You will never be mymother.” I make her apainting,agirlwithbigKeaneeyes crying violet tears, andshetellsmethatshe’shungitinherbathroom,alongwithafree-form nude I did usinggouache. I bring mydisposable camera and takepicturesofushangingoutanddrawing,justlikepalsdo.

The work we’re doingtogetherhelps,buteven threemorningsaweekisn’tenoughto stop the terrible thoughts,thefearofsleepandoflifeingeneral. Sometimes, tomanage the images thatcomeunbidden, I force myself topicturemyparentscopulatingin intricate patterns,summoning the image in setsof eight, for so long thatlooking at them makes me

nauseous.“Mom,” I say. “Turn away

from me so I won’t think ofsex.”

Sittingwithmymotherinthebeauty salon one afternoon, Icome across an article aboutobsessive-compulsivedisorder. A woman describesher life, so burdened with

obsessionsthatshehastolickart inmuseums and crawl onthe sidewalk. Her symptomsaren’tmuchworse thanmine:themagazine’s description ofhermosthorribledayparallelsmy average one. I tear thearticle out and bring it toRobyn, whose face crumplessympathetically,asthoughthemoment she’d been dreadinghad finally arrived. It makesme want to throw my

needlepoint supplies in herface. Do I have to doeverythingmyself?

One day, when I’m fourteen,Robyn warns me that shemight get an important callduring our session. She’ssorry, but she has to take it,wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t a

real emergency. She’s gonefor about ten minutes, andwhen she returns she looksrattled. Takes a deep breath.“So—”

“Where’s your weddingring?”Iaskher.

“I’ll see you Wednesday,Leen,”Robynsays,andIpullonmyorangeparkaandhead

fortheelevator.Inthewaitingroom are two teenagers—ablond boy, the kind ofunderdeveloped but cutethirteen-year-old male thatdrives seventh-grade galscrazydespitebeingfour-foot-seven, and a pale girl withgreen streaks in her hair. Istareatherforamoment toolong,becauseIrecognizeher:she’s the one in the photo inRobyn’s Filofax, which

sometimes lies open on herdesk.That’sRobyn’sdaughter,Audrey.I leave the office a beat

beforetheydo,buttheycatchup with me at the elevator,and I’mholdingmybreathasweridedowntogether, tryingto somehow take her inwithout looking directly ather.Iwishshewereapicturein a magazine, so I couldstare, rotate thepage slightly,

stareagain.Does she knowwho I am?

Maybe she’s jealous. I wouldbe. When we reach theground floor, she looks rightinto my face. “He thinksyou’re hot,” she says,motioning to her friend, thenbolts.I step out onto Broadway,

beaming.

What happens over the nextfewmonthsisliketheplotofa children’s movie, the kindwhereadogfindsitsownerinspite of insurmountable oddsand prohibitive geography.Through shrewd detectivework, Audrey discovers thather camp friend Sarah ismyschool friend Sarah, andbeginspassingmenotes.Theyare fat envelopes, decoratedwith puff paint and star

stickers.Insidethefirstoneisa letter, in the kind of funteen scrawl theyuse inSavedby the Bell: “HEY YOUSEEM AWESOME! I betwe’dgetalong.Mymomsayswewouldifwecouldmeet. Ilove shopping, the Felicitysoundtrack,oh,andshopping.Here’s a pic of me at theWailing Wall after my BatMitzvah! INSTANTMESSAGEMEEEE.”

I write back an equallyeffusive note, laboring overwhichpicturetoshare,beforefinallysettlingonashotofmelounging on my sister’s bunkbedinavintagecroptopthatreads super debbie. “I alsoluuuv theFelicity soundtrack,animals, acting, and DUHSHOPPING!Myscreenname

isLAFEMMELENA.”Iknowourcorrespondence

iswrong,andsoItellRobyn,who confirms my belief thatthis is inappropriate. “It’s toobad,” she says, “because Ithink you two are verysimilar. You would probablybegoodfriends.”

When I’m fifteen I stopworking with Robyn. I’mreadytostoptalkingaboutmyproblems all the time, I tellher,andshedoesn’tfightme.I feel good. My OCD isn’tcompletelygone,butmaybeitneverwillbe.Maybe it’spartof who I am, part of what Ihavetomanage,thechallengeofmy life.And for now thatseemsokay.Our last session is full of

laughter,fancysnacks,talkofthefuture.Iadmithowmuchit hurt me when she reactedwith disgust to my belly-buttonring,andshesaysshe’ssorry she displayed herpersonal bias. I thank her forhaving let me bring my catinto a session and forremoving said belly-buttonring once it became infected,using a pair of pliers, and,mostofall,forhavingguided

me toward wellness. For thefirst time in many years, Ihave secrets. Thoughts thataren’t suitable for anyone butme.ImissherthewayImissed

our loft after we moved inseventh grade: sharply, andthen not at all. There is toomuchunpackingtodo.

Within six months, I’mignoring my homework andskipping class so I can hangout with my pet rabbitChester Hadley. My parentsthink I’m depressed, and Ithink they’re idiots. Becauseofmymedication, I’m sleepyall the time, and I becomenotorious at school fornappinginmyhood,snappingto attention the moment ateacher says my name: “I

wasn’tsleeping.”My fascination with

Robyn’s daughter has neverdied, and our lives overlapjustenoughthatIhaveasenseofwhere andhowshe is: I’mtoldshepiercedherownnoseatsummercampandisdatinga graffiti artist named SEX.Once, ourmutual friend putsusonthephonetogether,andIcanbarelyspeak.“Hey!”shegrowls.

“It’syou,”Isay.

Mystruggleisdeepening,andmy father tells me that I amgoing to see Margaret, a“learning and organization”specialist who I met with afew times years earlier whenmy parents discovered I hadbeen stuffing all myunfinished homework under

my bed for half the schoolyear. I remember her fondlyenough, mostly because sheoffered Chessmen cookiesand orange juice before weset to work on my mathhomework.WhenIarrivethistime, she doesn’t offer anycookies,but she looks just asI’d left her: wavy red bob,creativelydrapedblackdress,and witch boots. More likemy mother than Robyn, but

withanAustralianaccent.Her office is amuseumof

pleasing curiosities: framedseashells, driedpussywillowsextending from asymmetricalvases, a coffee tabledecorated with feathers andstray tiles used as coasters.Forafewweeks,wesitatherdesk and focus on organizingmy backpack, which lookslike a crack-addicted hoarderwith five toddlers took up

residence in its front zipperpocket.Sheshowsmehowtokeepadatebookandlabelthesectionsofabinderandcheckassignments off when I’vefinished them. Margaret is apsychiatrist as well, and Ioften see sad children ormismatched couples waitingfor her after our session, butthis isn’t the place to talkaboutmyfeelings.Weareallabout efficiency, neat edges,

prioritizing.But one day I come in,

melted down by a recurrenceof obsessive thoughts and bythe milky, sickening feelingmymedicationisgivingme.Idon’t have the will to cleanout my binder. I had gottensuch satisfaction out of thesystems she introduced, thesharppencilsandcrispmanilafolders. But, in a grandmetaphor for my worsening

state,Ihavedoodlednonsenseonalltheonce-pristinepages.Ilaymyheadonthedesk.“Doyouwant to sit on the

couch?”Margaretasks.

Margaret won’t tell meanythingabouther life.Fromthe start, she makes it clearthat we’re here to talk about

me. When I ask a questionabout herself, she tends toignoreit.Sheisn’tmeanaboutit. Rather, she looks at mewith a blank smile thatimpliesI’vespokentoherinalanguage she doesn’tunderstand.“Just curious, do you have

children?”Iask.“What do you think

knowing the answer to thatwould do for you?” she asks

me, just like shrinks do inmovies.Asaresultofher

reticence, I developmy own theoriesabout Margaret. One is thatshe’s a measured andreasonable eater, unable tounderstandmypersonalbattlewith gluttony. I have seen agoat’s milk yogurt in hergarbagebefore,thelidplacedneatly back on the empty

carton. Another of mytheories is that she loves awarm bath. I am sure sheloves wildflowers, trains, andheart-to-hearts with wise oldwomen.Onedayshe tellsmethat as a schoolgirl she wasforcedtowearaboaterhatonfield trips. I cling to thisimage, imagining a tinyMargaretmarchingtoandfroinalonglineofgirlsinhats.Then there is the autumn

dayIcomeintofindherwitha bright, shiny black eye.BeforeIcanevenregistermyshock, she points to it andlaughs. “A bit of a gardeningaccident.” But I believe her.Margaret would never letanyone hit her. She wouldnever let anyone wear shoesindoors. She would alwaysprotectherself,herfloors,herflowers.

My father says his friend

Burt knew Margaret in thenineties, that she had been“aroundforaminute,”havingadalliancewithavideoartist.Iimaginetheirdates:heslidesintotheboothacrossfromherandasksherhowherdaywas.She just smiles and nods,smilesandnods.

ThatAudreyandIwindupatcollege together is oneof thestrangest things that hashappened, maybe ever, butdefinitely to me. On thesurface, it makes perfectsense: two New York Citygirls with similar SAT scoresand similar authorityproblems being directedtoward the same attainableliberal education byuncreativeadministrators.But

spiritually, I can’t believe it.After all these years ofseparateness,wearetogether.

We bond immediately,more overwhatwe hate thanwhat we love. We both hatelox. We both hate boys incargo pants. We’re both sickof kids from Long Islandsaying they’re from NewYork.Wespendthefirstfewweeks of the school yearriding our new red bicycles

around town in impracticalshoes and too much lipstick,unwillingtoletgooftheideathatcitygirlsdoitdifferently.We can barely hold in ourpeals of laughter when a boynamed Zenith arrives at aparty in a shirt that says b isfor baller. We set our sightsonseniorboyswhorunironicliterary magazines and try toavoidusingthebathroomnexttoanybodybuteachother.

Audrey is an intellectual,likes to talkaboutFelliniandreadthickbooksabouttaintedpresidencies by old beardedmen. But she also uses slangmore confidently than I evercould and holds her denimminiskirt together withpatches from hard-coreshows.Shecutsherownhair,applies her own liquideyeliner, and appears to beabletoeatasmanycookiesas

she wants without breakingone hundred pounds. Wemake up funny names foreachother:sqeedly-doo,looty,boober.

We have our first fightthreeweeksin,whenIdecideshe’sholdingmebacksociallywithhermisanthropy.“Icameheretogrow,”Itellher.“Andyoudon’twantthat.”

Sheruns into thewoodsofthe arboretum sobbing, falls,

andscrapesherknee.WhenItry to help, she cries, “Whywouldyouwantto!?”Icallmymother,whoison

Ambien and cheerfully tellsme to just “buy a tickethome!” I feel certain andterrifiedthatAudreyisinherroom talking to her mother,andthatRobynismadatme.We make up a few days

later when, at a brunchpotluck,Irealize thatIdo, in

fact,hateeverybody.Evenmynew friendAllison,who runsthe radio station, and evenBecky, who makes veganmuffins and has a quiltcomposed of Clash t-shirts.Theconversationatcollegeismakingme insane: politicallycorrect posturing by peoplewithout real politics. Audreywas right: we are all that isgoodforeachother.Sometimes Audrey and I

areeatingcereal,ordryingoffafter the shower, and I see aflashofhermother.Robynishere: young and naked, myfriend.

Margaret is on vacation, andit’sanemergency.Mymotherand I are in the worst fightwe’veeverhad,one that tests

the concept of unconditionallove, not to mention basichuman decency. And thething is, no one is rightexactly.Webothfollowedourhearts and had no choice buttohurteachotherdeeply.I tryMargaret, but, as this

is not technically a life-threateningemergency,Idon’tleave a message. Next I callmy aunt, who I hope will atleast tell me I am not a sack

ofrancidgarbageshaped likeahuman.

“Yourmom isn’t easy, andneither are you,” she says. “Idon’tknowhowyou’llfixit,Ijust know that you have to.”ShesuggestsIcallherfriend,“relationship expert” Dr.Linda Jordan. “Linda willhave thoughts,” shepromises.“And she is greatwith givingfastandefficientadvice.”

Advice? My therapist has

never givenme advice. She’sall about making me givemyselfadvice.So, about to commit my

second major betrayal sincethe one my mother can tellyou all about, I call someoneelse’stherapist.Relationship Expert Dr.

Linda Jordan is on a trip toWashington, D.C., withfriends from college, so shecalls me back from a bench

outside the Smithsonian. Itturns out we’ve met—yearsago, at aBatMitzvah—and Ivaguely rememberhercapofhoney hair and a handful ofchunky diamond rings. “So,what’s going on?” she asks,with the warm but solution-oriented tone of a high-powereddivorceattorney.I let itallpourout.What I

did. What my mother didback.Whatwe’dbothdoneto

eachothersincewedidthosefirst things thatwe did. “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” Linda says,letting me know she’s withme.

Finally, Ibreathe.“So.AmIterrible?”

For the next twentyminutes, Linda talks. First,she explains some basic“facts” about the mother-daughter relationship. (“Youare her possession, but you

arealsoaperson.”)Next, shetells me that we’ve bothbehaved in perfectlyunderstandable, if unpleasant,ways. (“I get it” is a favoritephrase.) “So,” she concludes.“This is actually a chance toreach the next phase of yourbond if you will let it be. Iknow that you can come outofthisstrongerthanbeforeifyou can tell her, ‘You’re mymother,andIneedyou,butin

a different way than before.Please let us change,together.’”Ihangupandfeelthepanic

subside for the first time indays:RelationshipExpertDr.Linda Jordan has helped me.And fast. It wasn’t likeMargaret,whereItalkaroundsomething and she nods andwe discuss a Henry Jamesnovel I’ve only read part ofandthenwemeanderbackto

the topic ofmy grandmotherand how I’d kill to be asleepand then I compliment hershoes, which are, as always,fabulous. I asked a questionandDr.LindaJordangavemean answer. And now I havethetoolstofixit.

I hang up the phone andcallmymother:“Iloveyou,”Isay.“You’remymother,andIneed you, but in a differentwaythanbefore.Pleaseletus

change,together.”“That’s fucking bullshit,”

she says. I can tell she’s in astore.

Audrey has had fifteen sinusinfectionsthiswinteraloneso,doctor’s orders, she is havingher nose broken, septumstraightened, tonsils andadenoidsremoved.Fiveofus

troop uptown to Robyn’sapartment, where Audrey isrecuperating. Before we ringthe doorbell we put onGrouchoglasseswithattachednoses andhold upour jugofsoup.Robyn answers in yoga

pants. “The patient is thisway,”shesays.Audrey lies on Robyn’s

four-poster bed, nosebandaged, lookingeven tinier

thanusual.Robynclimbsontothebedbesideher.“Howyoufeeling,sweetie?”The other girls head to the

kitchen to unpack themagazines and cookies webought from a kiosk in thesubway.And,asifwe’vedoneit fifty timesbefore,as ifweareafamily, Icrawl intobedwith Audrey and Robyn.Weall need to be taken care ofsometimes.

MargaretandIhavetalkedonthe phone from just abouteverywhere. I’ve called herfrom beaches, speedingvehicles in western states,crouchedbehindaDumpster,in the parking lot of mycollege dormitory, and frommybedroom tenblocks fromheroffice,whenIdidn’thavetheenergytomakemywayto

her couch. From Europe,Japan, and Israel. I’vewhispered to her about guyswhoweresleepingnexttome.Never has the sound of hervoice,thatcalmbutexpectanthello,notputmeatease.Sheanswers on the second ring,and allmymuscles andveinsrelax.

Onarecentvacation,Icallher from the Arizona desert,wearing only my underwear,

baking my flesh by a plungepool. I spend themajority ofour session telling her aboutthe furniture shopping myboyfriend and I have donethat morning. Our first timemaking real aesthetic choicesas a couple, we successfullyselected a coffee table, twobronzedeer,andapairoftornleatherette barstools. Unableto resist, I threw a Cubistceramiccatintothemix.

“I really feel like we havesimilartaste!”Igush,ignoringhow unsure she sounds aboutthe addition of kitschy metalanimalstoalivingroom.“That’s wonderful,” she

says.“MyhusbandandIhavealwayshadsimilartasteanditreallymakes creating a homesuch a pleasure.” With heraccent,“pleasure”soundslikepleeeshuh.Suchapleeshuh.Stunned,Iwaitabeat.

“It does!” I say. She toldme.Shetoldme.Shetoldme.Later in the conversation,

shereferencesa trip toParis:“Formyhusband’s jobwegoquite regularly.” This is likeChristmas.Giftaftergift.NotonlydoInowknowshehasahusband, I know he is quitepossiblyFrenchorattheveryleast EMPLOYED BYFRENCH PEOPLE. This isinformation I can work with.

Next she is going to tell meabout her Black Panthercollege boyfriend and hermiscarriage and her bestfriend,Joan.

“HUGE NEWS!” I telleveryonewhowilllisten.“Mytherapist has a husband. AndhemightbeFrench.”

Why does Margaret deemme ready now? What testhave I passed, what maturityhave I displayed? Do

therapists have a metric bywhich they judge our abilityto work with informationrationally? I wonder if sheregretteditwhenshehungup,frowned,andgatheredupherprettyhands,thehandswithagoldringoneveryfingersoastokeepthemysteryalive.

Maybe I have properlyconveyed the truth andsecurity of my romanticrelationship and she is ready

to admit me into a club ofstable, balanced women withwhom she shares.Maybe shejustcan’t resistgabbingwhenit comes to midcenturyfurnishings. Ormaybe it wasanaccident.Maybesheforgotour roles for a moment, andwe became just two women,twofriendsonalong-distancecall. Catching up about ourhouses, our husbands, ourlives.

I THINK A FAIR AMOUNT aboutthefactthatwe’reallgoingtodie. It occurs to me atincredibly inopportunemoments—I’ll be standing in

a bar, havingmanaged to getanattractiveguytolaugh,andI’ll be laughing, too, andmaybedancingalittlebit,andthen everything goes slo-mofor a second and I’ll think:Are these people aware thatwe’re all going to the sameplace in the end? I can slipback into conversation andtell myself that the flash ofmortality awareness hasenriched my experience,

remindedme tojustgofor itin the giggling and hair-flipping and speaking-my-mind departmentsbecause…why the hell not?But occasionally the feelingstayswithme,and it remindsme of being a child—feelingfull of fear but lacking thelanguage to calm yourselfdown. Iguess,when itcomestodeath,noneofusreallyhasthewords.

I wish I could be one ofthose young people whoseems totally unaware of thefact that her gleaming nubilebody is, in fact, fallible.(Maybe you have to have agleaming nubile body to feelthat way.) Beautiful self-delusion:Isn’tthatwhatbeingyoungisallabout?Youthinkyou’reimmortaluntilonedaywhen you’re around sixty, ithits you: you see an Ingmar

Bergman–y specter of deathand you do some soulsearchingandpossiblyadoptakid in need. You resolve tolive the rest of your life in awayyoucanbeproudof.But I am not one of those

young people. I’ve beenobsessed with death since Iwasborn.Asalittlekid,anunnamed

fear would often overtakeme. It wasn’t a fear of

anything tangible—tigers,burglars, homelessness—andit couldn’t be solved by usualmeans like hugging mymother or turning onNickelodeon shows. Thefeeling was cold and residedjust below my stomach. Itmade everything around meseem unreal and unsafe. Icould most closely equate itwiththesensationIfeltwhen,atagethree,Iwastakentothe

hospital in the night withsudden hives. My parentswere away, on a trip, and somyBrazilianbabysitterFlaviahad rushed me to the ER,where a doctor placedme onahighbedandpressedacoldstethoscope between myshoulder blades. On our wayinto the hospital I was sure Ihad seen a man sleepinginside of a mailbag. Inhindsight, hemust have been

onagurney,coveredinadarkblanket. Maybe he wascomatose or even dead. Thedoctor removed my shirt,checked under my armpits,and all the while I hoveredabove us, dissociated,observing.This chain reaction of

observations and implicationswouldrepeatitselfthroughoutmy childhood, in the face ofthisunnamedfear,andIcame

to refer to it as “hospitalfeeling.”Idecideditcouldbecured by taking a swig ofgrapejuice.I was able to put a finer

pointonthisfeelingwhenmygrandmother died. I wasfourteen. I had recentlycoloredmyhairandboughtasatin tube top, a transition Iconsidered to be evidence ofirreversible maturity. Ishowed up to my last visit

with my grandmother in richbrown lipstick and a slimcollarlesscoat,boughtonsaleatBananaRepublic.Ipaintedmy dying grandmother’sfingernails carefully with apearlescent polish by Wet nWild and promised to returnfor lunch the next day. Butthere was no next day: shediedlatethatnight,myfatherby her side. The followingmorning, when he recounted

herpassingtous,wasthefirstandlasttimeIsawhimcry.Until I was about twelve

mygrandmotherwasmybestfriend. Carol MargueriteReynolds—Gram, as I calledher—was in possession of aswirling bob of snow-whitehair and only one eyebrow, aresult of a lack of UVawareness. She was in thehabit of drawing on themissing one with a gray-blue

Maybelline pencil that didn’teven begin to suggest naturalhair growth. She wore pantsfrom the maternity store toaccommodate her distendedbellyandthekindofpracticalshoes that have, in recentyears, become fashionable inBrooklyn. Her house smelledof mothballs, baby powder,and a loamy moistness thatemanated from heroverstuffedbasement.Icalled

hereverydayat4:00P.M.

On the surface, she wastraditional.Provincialeven.Aretiredreal-estateagentinOldLyme, Connecticut, with apassion forDanRatherandafreezer full of cheap Londonbroil, she wasn’t particularlyinterested in our life in thecity.(Infact,Ionlyrememberher visiting once, an event Iwas so excited for that I putout themilk for tea at 10:00

A.M., and it spoiled by her4:00 P.M. arrival.) But thetrappingsofherdomestic lifehid what I now see was thesoul of a radical. Afterattending a one-roomschoolhouse in a town full ofswamp Yankees—her familyhad been the first of theirneighborstohaveacar,whichthey drove across the frozenlake in winter—she had fledher sheltered life for Mount

Holyoke College, Yalenursing school, and then thearmy,whereshewasstationedin Germany and Japansuturing wounds andremoving shrapnel fromGermansoldiersdespitestrictorders to let them die. Shedated doctors (some of themJews!) and adopted adachshund named Meatloafshe’d found rummagingthrough the trash behind her

tent.Gram recounted her

adventures with PlymouthRock stoicism, but it wasclear to me, even as a nine-year-old, that she’d seen farmore than she was willing todiscuss.Gramdidn’tmarryuntilshe

was thirty-four, which, in1947, was the equivalent ofbeing Liza Minnelli on herfifth gay husband. My

grandfather, also namedCarroll, was massively obeseand came from great wealth,whichhehadsquanderedonaseries of misguidedinvestments including achicken farm and a businessthat sold “all-in-one sportingcages.” But Gram sawsomething in him, andwithintwoweekstheywereengaged.From this union came myfather and his brother,

Edward,akaJack.The day after Gram died,

my father and I drove up toherhouseonelasttime,andIlistened toAimeeMannon aDiscman and watched theindustrial landscape pass by.Thisdrivehadbeen a fixtureof my childhood: abandonedhospitals and train tracks,signsfortownsthatdidn’tliveup to their names, a stop inNewHavenforpizzaandgas.

This, I remember thinking, isthe end. Nothing had everendedbefore.

As my father and UncleJack organizedGram’s thingsin preparation to sell herhouse,Iwanderedthehallsinher bathrobe, her crumpledtissues still in the pockets,wailing. They kept working,seemingly immune to themagnitudeoftheoccasion.

“I can’t believe she saved

allthesefuckingreceipts,”myfatherhissed.“There’scannedsoupinthecellarfrom1965.”“She was just here!” I

shouted at the unfeelingadults. “And now she’s gone!Her things are still in theREFRIGERATOR!”When I emerged from the

bathroom smelling her comb,myuncletookmyfatherasideandaskedhimtopleasemakemestop.

Enraged by the request, Iretreated to her closet andswitched to sniffing herpajamas. My head throbbedwith questions. Where isGram? Is she conscious? Isshe lonely? And what doesthisallmeanforme?Therestofthesummerwas

characterizedbyakindofhotterror, a lurking dread thatcastapallorovereverythingIdid.EveryicepopIate,every

movieIwatched,everypoemI wrote, was tinged with asense of impending loss. Notof another loved one but ofmy own life. It could betomorrow. It could be eightyyears from tomorrow. But itwas coming for us all, and Iwasnoexception.

So what were we playingat?

Finally, oneday, I couldn’tstand it anymore: I walked

intothekitchen,laidmyheadon the table, and asked myfather,“Howarewesupposedto live every day ifwe knowwe’re going to die?” Helooked at me, clearly painedby the dawning of mygenetically predestinedmorbidity. He had been thesame way as a kid. A dayneverwentbywherehedidn’tthink about his eventualdemise. He sighed, leaned

back in his chair, unable toconjure a comforting answer.“Youjustdo.”My father can get pretty

existential.“You’rebornaloneand you die alone” is afavorite of his that Iparticularly hate. Ditto“Perhapsreality isjustachipimplanted in all our brains.”Hehasahistoryofstaringoutinto nature and asking, “Howdo we know this is actually

here?” Iguess I inherited it. Ithought about Gram, abouthowlongandcomplicatedherlifehadbeen,andhowithadnow been reduced to aDumpster full of old cannedgoods and a vintage Puccisweater I had already spilledtomato sauce on. I thoughtaboutallthethingsIhopedtoget done in my life andrealized:Ibettergetcracking.I can never spend a whole

afternoon watching a SingledOut marathon again if this iswhat’sgoingtohappen.

ThefactisIhadbeencirclingthe topic of death,subconsciously, for sometime. Growing up in Soho inthe late 1980s and early1990s, I was aware of AIDS

and the toll it was taking onthe creative community.Illness, loss, who wouldhandle the art and the realestateand themedicalbills—these topics hovered overevery dinner party. As manyofmyparents’friendsbecamesick, I learned to recognizethelookofsomeonesuffering—sunken cheeks, odd facialspotting, a sweater that nolongerfit.AndIknewwhatit

meant:thatpersonwouldsoonbecomeamemorial,thenameon a prize given to visitingstudents,adistantmemory.

My mom’sbest friend,Jimmy, was aswarthy gayfetishphotographerwhowasdyingby the time I

was born.One ofmy earliest

memories is of apale, feeblemanrecliningonthecouchbythefrontwindowsofourloft,joking weakly with mymother about gossip, andfamily, and fashion. He wascharismatic, talented, darklyfunny.Mymotherhelpedhimget his affairs in order,reached out to friends whohadn’tseenhiminalongtimeto say goodbye, navigatedNew York with his mother

when she came to be withJimmyinhisfinaldays.Istillhave a lot of guilt forscreaming at Jimmywhen heate a banana I had been“saving,” especially since hediedafewweekslater.

The summer aftersophomore year of college Ibecame convinced I, too,woulddieofAIDS. Ihad ill-advised intercourse with apetite poet-

mathematicianwho,afterward,removed thecondom,placed itunder his pillow, and wipedhis penis clean on his owncurtains.“CanItellyouasecret?”he

askedashereturnedtobed.“Layitonme!”Isaid.“Well,” he said, “lastweek

I was walking around late atnight and I accidentallywanderedintoagaybarandImet this Filipino guy and lethim come to my house, andhe fucked me in the ass andthecondombrokeandthenhestolemywallet.”Ipaused.“I’msosorrythat

happenedtoyou,”Isaid.

It was about a hundreddegreesout, thekindofNewYork heat that chafes yourthighs andmakes themurderrate spike. I spent the rest ofthe summer in a hell of myown creation, imagining thevirus taking hold, the thingsI’d never do, the children I’dnever have, the tears mymotherwouldshedasshelostyet another loved one to thispandemic. Ihaddoneenough

research toknow that,were Iinfected, it wouldn’t show upon a test for several months,so I simplywaited and askedmyself questions: Was Istrong enough to be anactivist? What would it feelliketobethefaceofAIDSinthe industrialized world? Orwould I simply hide until Idied? I asked to have mywisdom teeth removed, justsoIcouldbeunconsciousfor

a few hours. I tried to enjoyevery bite of Tasti D andevery laugh shared with mysister, knowing things wouldsoonchange. Imadeoutwitha computer programmer andwondered if I had exposedhimtotheillness.BytheendofthesummerIwasofficially“livingwithAIDS.”

Spoileralert:Iwasfine.As much as I wanted to

believe the universe punishes

you for fucking a minusculebisexual, Ihadnotcontractedthe virus. But the chillingspecter ofmyowndeath hadbeen so all consuming, I’drequireddentalsurgery.

“I don’t mind the idea ofdying,” my friend Elizabethsays, “but I’m stressed out

about the logistics of thewholething.”If we are reincarnated, as

my mother promises, howlong do we have to waitaround before we get insidethat new baby? Is it a longline, like the Japanese girlslined up outside a newlyopenedTopshop?Whatifthatnew baby has mean parents?If we follow the Buddhistlogic that we are becoming

part of the glory of theuniverse, one hugeconsciousness,well,that’sjusttoomuchtogethernessformytaste. I couldn’t even do agroup art project in secondgrade. How am I going toshare an understanding withthe rest of creation? If thisprovestobethecase,I’mtoomuchofalonerfordeath,butI’m also scared of beinglonely.Wheredoes that leave

me?

Afterreadinganearlyversionof this essay,my friendMattasked me: “Why are you insuch a rush to die?” I wasshockedbythequestion,evena little pissed. This wasn’taboutme!Thiswasabouttheuniversal plight, which Ihappen to have an

exceptionally clearperspectiveonbecauseofmyinabilitytoignoreitlikesomeothernincompoops!I had never thought of it

that way, butMatt was right.The hypochondria. Theintensity of my reactions todeath, and my inability todisengagewiththetopiconceit is raised in a group. Myneed to make it clear toeveryone that it’s coming for

them, too. My need tomeditate on it. Is what’smanifesting as a fear actuallysome instinct to resist beingyoung? Youth, with all itsaccompanying risks,humiliations, anduncertainties, the pressure todoitallbeforeit’stoolate.Isthe sense of imminent deathbound up in the desire toleavesomekindofalegacy?Idid once write, though never

shot, a short film in which Iheld amassive funeral, heardeveryone I love speak on thetopicofme, thenjumpedoutof my casket at the end andyelled,“Surprise!”

I am still inmytwentiessoafearofdeathis, whilereasonable ina macro way,also fairly

irrational. Most people livethrough their twenties. Andtheir thirties. And theirforties. Many people livelonger than is amusing, eventothem.SoeverytimeIthinkaboutdeath,whenIlieinbedand imagine disintegrating,my skin going leathery andmy hair petrifying and a treegrowing out of my stomach,it’sawaytoavoidwhat’srightin front of me. It’s a way to

notbehere,intheuncertaintyofrightnow.If I live long enough and

amgivenachancetoreadthiswhenI’mold,I’llprobablybeappalled at my own audacitytothinkthatIhaveanysenseofwhat deathmeans,what itbrings to light, what it feelslike to live with theknowledge that it is coming.How could someone whosebiggest health scare was a

coffee-induced coloninfection know what the endof life looks like?Howcouldsomeonewhohasneverlostaparent, a lover, or a bestfriend have the faintest clueaboutwhatanyofthismeans?My dad, who looks pretty

greatforsixty-four,isfondofsaying, “You just can’tfucking imagine, Lena.” Hecan see the big event in thedistance(hisbeliefinrobotics

not withstanding) and saysthings like “Bring it on. Atthis point, I’m fuckingcurious.” I get it: I knownothing. But I also hope thatfuture me will be proud ofpresentmefortryingtowrapmyheadaroundthebigideasand also for trying to makeyou feel likewe’re all in thistogether.

Gram’s sister is still alive.1Doadisonehundred,withtheenergy of someone in herearly eighties. Although herbodyresistsmostactivity,shestill knits, whittles, andpractices the organ. She hasthe kind of Yankeedispositionthattakesthingsastheycome.Forher, cancer is

akin to a shopping centergoing up next door:inconvenient and unexpected,but there’s notmuch you cando about it. She has neverlistened to Deepak Chopra,switched to almond milk, ormeditated.Yetshe ishere, inthechairbythewindowinthehouse she was born in,outliving her husband andsiblings and nephews andfriends.

My father and I visit herabout once a year. I ask herabouther thoughtsoncurrentevents (“Obama seems like anice kid and handsome toboot”) and the history of herhouse (“One toilet and fivekids;itwasagoddamnjoke”).She uses the expression “notin a dog’s age!” the waymillennials say “like.” Myfather, when beholding awomanwiththesamematter-

of-fact staccato and cap ofwhite hair as his mother,becomes withdrawn,childlike.Heshuffleshisfeetthe same way he does at hismother’s grave or in trafficcourt, all traces of radicalismgone.Doad wrote a memoir.

Seventeen years ago, whenshe was already pretty damnold.Shechronicledlifeinhertown in the early part of the

twentieth century—the firstcar, the first television, thefirstdivorce.Shewroteaboutthe one-room schoolhouse,herloneblackfriend,andthetimeherbrotherclimbedonaladderinadevilmask,peeredinto her bedroom window,and scared her so badly shewetherself.Shediditnotforglorybutforposterity—spare,practical prose designedsimply to get the information

out, to prove that she wasthereandthatsheisstillhere.She’sproudofthefactthat,atherage,shedoesn’tneedhelpto dress—plaid shirt, nurse’sshoes,pastel“dungarees.”The last time we visit, she

gives us a pile of scarves sheknit by hand, all slightly tooshort, thestitchesunevenandlumpy. When we leave shesays we didn’t stay longenough,andwepromisewe’ll

be back, next time with mysister.Wehuggoodbye,andIcan feel the curve of herspine,eachvertebrabulging.On the ride back to the

city, my father and Iencounter some of the “mosthideous” traffic he has everseen. We creep along thehighway, and he relaxes hisgrip on the wheel, growscontemplative. “We shouldvisit Doad more,” he says.

“She knows we only stay forforty-five minutes. She’s notsenile.”

I trysomethingnewoutonhim, something I’ve beenthinking, or wonderingwhether I think: “I’m reallynotafraidtodie,”Isay.“Notanymore. Something’schanged.”

“Well,” he says, “I’m sureyour feelings about that willcontinue to evolve as you get

older.Asyou seemoredeatharoundyouandthingshappentoyourbody.But Ihopeyoualwaysfeelthatway.”I know he loves talking

aboutdeath. It just takeshimasecondtogetwarmedup.“You know,” he says. “It

just can’t be a bad thing.Becauseit’severything.”We talk about enlightened

beings,whatitwouldmeantotranscendthehumanplane.“I

want tobeenlightened,but italsosoundsboring,”Itellhim.“So much of what I love—gossipandfurnitureandfoodand the Internet—are reallyhere, on earth.” Then I saysomething that wouldprobably make the Buddharolloverinhisgrave:“IthinkI could be enlightened, butI’mnotinthemoodyet.Ijustwant towork the death thingout.”

We crest a hill in the wetdark and see, before us, astring of cars, lit up red, at astandstillasfarastheeyecansee.Wearehoursfromhome.“Holy shit,” he says. “That isfucking insane. Is this evenreal?”

1 Doris Reynolds Jewett diedpeacefully on December 10, 2013,

havingveryrecentlydrunkamartini.

1.Weareallafraidofcancer.FromwhatIunderstandit’sathreatthatisalwaysjustloominginsideyourbody,butisn’taproblemuntilitis.Itcouldbelivinganywherefromyourlivertothatadorablesignaturemoleonyourhip,anditcouldeither

killyouorsparkamemoir.I’mnotscaredenoughtodoany10Kwalks,butI’mprettyscared.

2.Ithinkalotaboutchronicfatiguesyndrome.Itssymptomssoundawful,likeafluthatwillnevereverend,thatdrainsyouandmakesyouanexhaustingburdenonyourfamilyandfriendsuntilyoufinallyarejustanideaofa

person.(Iamsuremedicalauthoritiesandsufferersalikewilllovethisdescription.)Itgetsworse:somedoctorsthinkit’samentalhealthissueanditssufferersaredelusionaldepressives.Otherpeoplesuspectit’slinkedtomono,whichIoncehadsobadlythatIwastootiredtocrumplemyfacewhenIcried.ThroughoutthedayIoftenaskmyself,CouldIfall

asleeprightnow?andtheanswerisalwaysaresoundingyes.

3.I’mconcernedthatifIatedifferently,morevegetablesorlesstoastwithbutterandsalt,I’dfeelthisinsaneburstofenergyIcanonlybegintoimagine.Thatabetter,stronger,moreproductivemeexistsifIwouldtakeproperstepstochangemylife.Even

whenpresentedwithevidenceofmyownproductivityIthinkthatthepeopleaccusingmeofbeingproductivedon’tknowhowharditisformetojustbendmyelbowsometimes.AconnectedfearisthatifIlosttwentypoundsI’drealizeI’vebeengoingthroughlifewithabackpackoffatstrappedtomeandI’dbeabletodocartwheelsandthings.Thatbeingsaid,a

homeopathicdoctoroncetoldmethatweneedbutterto“lubricateoursynapses”andthereasonthedivorcerateinHollywoodissohighisbecauseeveryoneisunderlubricated.

4.Related:Iamscaredaboutwhatmycellphoneisdoingtomybrain.AndyetIhaveneverusedanearbudformorethanhalfaday.The

mostterrifyingaspectofhumanhealthisourrefusaltotakestepstohelpourselvesandthefactthatwearesooftenresponsibleforourowndemisethroughlackofpositiveaction.Itmakesmewanttotakeanap.

5.Tonsilstones.Doyouknowabouttonsilstones?Well,letmeaskyouthis:Haveyouevercoughedupasmallwhite

rockthat,uponfurtherinspection,smelledliketheworstcornersoftheNewYorksewersystem?Ifso,I’msureyouwereshockedthiscamefromyourownbodyandyouflusheditawayandhopednevertothinkofitagain.Thatwasatonsilstone.Theyforminthecryptsofyourtonsils,wherefoodanddeadskinandvariousdetrituscollectandferment,creating

themostdisgustingthingyourbodyiscapableofproducing(andthat’ssayingalot).Inadditiontotheirunseemliness,theyarealsoasourceofinfectionanddiscomfort.Imyselfhavetheoccasionalstoneandaskedmydoctortoinspectmytonsils,whichhedescribedas“teemingballsofdisease.”Andyet,whenIaskedaboutremovingthem,heseemedunconcerned.He

saidIwouldhavetorestfortwoweeksandwouldloseatleastfifteenpounds,whichisnotthewaytodeterme.How,Iask,canitbeevenremotelyokaytohavethishappeninginone’sthroat?Willotherpeoplesenseitand,inanapocalypticsituation,leavemebehindtochokeonmystonesanddie?

6.Iliveinfearoftinnitus.A

constantringinginmyearthatwilldrivememad,thatwillkeepmeawakeandinterruptmyconversationsandevenwhenit’scuredI’llstillhearitsmalevolentharmony.IfIlieverystillatnightIcanfullyimagineit,asoundlikeabugbeingboiledtodeath.

7.Iamveryscaredoflampdust.Ihaveaseriousproblemwithdustcomingoutofmy

lamps.EverythingIputundermylampsis,withinminutes,coveredinathicklayerofdust.Inrelatednews,myleftnostrilisnevernotclogged,andoncetheear,nose,andthroatdoctorsuckedallthemucusoutofmysinuseswithatinyvacuumandforthreehoursIfelta45percentspikeinmyqualityoflifeuntilitrefilledagain.

8.I’mafraidofadrenalfatigue.Thisisrelatedtochronicfatiguebutnotthesame.Westerndoctorsdon’tbelieveinadrenalfatigue,butifyouhaveajobandareahuman,thenanyholisticdoctorwilltellyouthatyouhaveadrenalfatigue.Itisessentiallyadangerousexhaustionthatcomesfromambitionandmodernlife.Ihaveitsobad.Pleaseread

aboutitontheInternet—youdo,too.

9.Thesurfaceofmytongueisinsane.Itlookslikeacartoonofthemoon.Itjustcan’tberight.

10.I’mafraidthatIaminfertile.Myuterusdoestilttotheright,whichcouldmeanit’saninhospitable

environmentforachildwhowantsastraight-down-the-linekindofuterus.AndsoIwilladopt,butIwon’thavethesortofbeautiful,genetics-defyinglovestorythatPeoplemagazinechronicles.Thekidwillhaveundiagnosedfetalalcoholsyndrome.Hewillhateme,andhewillnailourdogtoaboard.

MY MOTHER AND

GRANDMOTHER attended“green-and- white” camp.

Thatwastheirshorthandforarespectablesummerhomeforprivileged Jewish girls whoseparentswereawayoncruises,where the uniform consistedof crisp green shorts and acollaredwhiteshirt.They described camp,

which theyattended foreightweeks every summer fromagessixtoseventeen,asasortof utopia for little girls.Nestleddeep in thewoodsof

southern Maine, you roastedmarshmallows and tradedsecrets and learned to use abow and arrow. Even mymother, a teenager so sullenandornerythatsherefusedtoeat dinner with her family,camealiveatcamp.Athomeshe was angry, disgusted byher father’s vaudeville senseof humor and her mother’scareful attention to socialmores. She hated her blond

sisters’ attempts to fit insocially and her maid forneedingmoney badly enoughto leave her own family. Butat camp she had a bunk ofsisters, girls who understoodher, girls who she waited allthrough the freezing, lonelywinter to see. At camp shewas able to express anenthusiasm and passion shenever let her family witness.Andwhenthesummerended,

shewasheartbroken.When I was little I would

lie in bed, drifting off asmymothertoldmetales:ofcolorwars, canoe trips, and pranksgalore. Of the camp mother,who roughly shampooedyourheadonceaweekandsetyourhair in curlers. Of undyingfriendship, a world whereyouth ruled and boys couldnot disturb the idyll. In mymind her camp stories have

mingled irrevocably with theplot of The Parent Trap,lendingmyimageofherlong-ago summers a Technicolorflair.WhenIwas ten,we tooka

road trip to Maine to visitfamily friends and made astop at the now-abandonedCamp Wenonah. From thepassenger side I could seeempty cabins, a tennis courtwith the net slumping toward

theground.Mymothersprangout of the car with the samemanic excitement that shemust have felt every summerwhenherparentsdroppedheroff. She’s been five-foot-tensince she was thirteen orfourteen, and I could justpicture that same lanky bodybounding out of bed in timefor the morning salute andflagraising.Now, nearing fifty and

wearing thekindofstrawhatthat makes me want to killmyself, shewalked us over agrassy hill to reveal a graylake vista, forgotten woodenboats knocking against theshore.On thisexactspot, shetold us, was where they heldthe outdoor mixers withneighboring boys campSkylamar. Over there, shethought, was the arts-and-crafts cabin, now just a husk

of its former self. Andsuddenly, she was crying. I’dneverseenhercrybeforeandI stared, unsure of my nextmove.“Stop looking at me,” she

snapped. “I’m not a scienceexperiment.”Iaskedifshestillspoketo

any of herWenonah friends.No, she said, but that didn’tmean she’d ever stop lovingthem—theyweresisters.

So I wanted camp, too. Ididn’t want to leave home. Iloved my loft bed and myhairlesscatandthesmalldeskmyfatherhadinstalledformeinwhat used to be the closetwhere he kept his sci-fipaperbacks. I lovedourmint-green elevator and ourMalaysiantakeoutandAugustin New York, the way theonly breeze came from thesubway rushing past. But I

alsowantedfriendships,freshstarts with people who hadnever seen me wet myselfduring Wiffle ball or hit myfather outside the deli. Iwantedmemoriessopowerfulthey made you cry. And byGod,Iwantedgreenshorts.

I spent three summers at

Fernwood Cove Camp forGirls.Fernwood Cove was the

sister camp of Fernwood, along-standing institution thatWenonah had regularlyopposed in sports. FernwoodCove was for four-weekers,girlstooscaredtospendeightweeks away from home. Ortoo spoiled to live withoutelectricity. Or too slutty tolive without boys. I had

decided eight weeks was toomuchformewhenmycousin,aFernwoodgirl,describedtheritualistic beheading of aweakling’s stuffed animal. “Imean, you just don’t bring atoy tocamp,” she said, like itwasobvious.IstartedatFernwoodCove

whenIwasthirteen.Ihadjustfinishedasuccessful seventh-grade year in which I hadenjoyed not one but two

popularboyfriendsandgottenmy hair highlighted by alicensed beautician namedBeata. This rare winningstreak was only slightlydampenedbytheshortbangsIhad cut myself in order toprepare for my audition asDrewBarrymore’s little sisterin the Penny Marshall filmRidinginCarswithBoys.(Therole went to someone elseafter I told Ms. Marshall I

couldnotsmileoncommand.“That’s called acting,” shegrowled.)So itwaswitha rare sense

ofhopeandanticipationthatIboardedthebusinBostonthatwould take me to FernwoodCove.Onthethree-hourdriveIgot toknowmyseatmate,agirl named Lydia GreenHamburger, who told me,within three minutes ofmeeting me, that she knew

Lindsay Lohan. Lydia wasdifferent from me—shetalked animatedly aboutschool dances and lacrosseandthemall—andyetwegotalong handsomely. This iswhat camp is all about! Ithought. Meeting other,slightly different kinds ofwhitegirls!But themomentwe pulled

into thedustydriveway and Isawthetetherballwaiting,the

fearsetin.If my behavior that first

summeratcampwastheonlyevidenceapsychiatristhad togo on, they would havediagnosedmeasafast-cyclingbipolar. My emotionsvacillatedwildly, from joy todespair to disdain of myfellowcampers.OneminuteIwaspassionatelyengagedwithmynewfriendKatie,and thenext Iwasconvinced shehad

the IQ of a lima bean. Oneminute I was reveling in themoment, not thinking aboutmyfamilyatall,andthenext,walkingfromtherockwalltothedramatent,Iwouldbehitwith awave of homesicknessso severe I was sure I woulddie right then and there. Myparentsseemedimpossiblyfaraway—dead, for all I knew.That sense became harder toshake, and as the summer

progressed my homesicknessonly grew more intense,whichwas the exact oppositeof what my father hadpromisedmewouldhappen.

The only thing thatdistractedme fullywasbeingallowedtopresentaplayIhadwritten about a woman withthirteen cats who wassearching for anunderstanding mate. On thestrength of this work, my

drama counselor Rita-Lynncast me as the star of a playshe’d written about “primalcoyotewomen” forher thesisat Yale drama school. I wasthrilleduntilIlearnedIwouldhave to drop a potato frombetween my legs and grunt,“Uh,whatagoodpoop.”Howcouldtheyaskaseriousactorto deliver such an absurdphrase!?But when the line got a

laugh at dress rehearsal, Idecideditwasgenius.I was in hell. I was in

heaven.Iwasatcamp.

Thereweretenofus,livingina three-hundred-square-footbunk, going through pubertyat lightning speed. It was toomuchhormonalactionforany

oneroom,andtheresultwasafrenzied, emotionally volatilespacethatsmelledlikeaBathandBodyWorks.

Just because there weren’tboys at camp doesn’t meantherewasn’tromance.Wehadsocials—twopersummer,justlike my mother did atWenonah—and we prepared,laying our outfits out a weekin advance, trading sandytubesoflipglossandglow-in-

the-darkbarrettes.My new

friendAshley,asporty blondewhowasdatingthe heir to theUtzpotatochipfortune,lentmeaneontubetopand twistedmy hair into tinyfashion dreadlocks. As Ireturned the favor, applyingblush to her already rosy

cheeks, I noticed something:“Youhaveaneyelash,” I toldher,andbrusheditaway,onlyto realize the long black hairwas actually growing out ofhercheek.We were all in various

stages of puberty. Charlottehad full-scale breasts, so bigthattheyhungdown,castingahalf-moon shadow on her ribcage. Marianna seemedunawareshewasgrowinghair

inherarmpits,ormaybetheydidn’t care in Colombia,whereshewasfrom.Iwasflatas a board, hairless too, andfinewithit,butIcouldn’tstopeyingeveryoneelse,staringattheir round asses as theydressed, the dusky hairsemerging from their bathingsuits. “Youare sobicurious!”my counselor Liz shrieked atme when she caught mewatchinghertitsswingasshe

changed.My greatest obsession was

BO. I smelled it everywhere:in thebathroom,on thewindduring kickball, on Emily’shairbrush, which I borrowedbecause my old one wasgrowingsomekindofmold.Icouldn’t imagine a lifewherethat smell, just enough likeonions to be truly confusing,came from your own body.Thenoneafternoon,sittingon

my own bed at rest hour, Iswore I smelled it. Not toostrong, but there, on my t-shirt.Abitofresearchledmeto an area near my rightarmpit. I got it from huggingCharlotte, I thought. Infact, Iwas sure of it. I wrote homeimmediately, explaining thewhole dreadful situation.“How do I tell Charlottewithoutbeingmean?”Iasked.In a letter back,my father

gently explained thatBOwashard to transferand that, justtobesafe,ImightwanttoaskforanaturalantiperspirantonthenextruntoWalmart.

ThefirstsocialofthesummertookplaceatCampSkylamar,a forty-minute drive fromFernwoodCove,inabarnfullof pimply boys in short-

sleeved button-downs andboat shoes. *NSYNC andBrandy played on a weakstereo system. The girlsdanced nervously in a clusterwhile the boys hung aroundthe edges of the roompounding fruit punch. Atsome point in the night, Iopened the door to thebathroom to find a boyhunched over the toilet,furiouslymasturbating.

After dusk, I fell intoconversationwith a fourteen-year-old from New Jerseynamed Brent. He washandsome,withabaseballhatand a boxer’s flat face. I toldhim I went to school inBrooklynandhesaidhedidn’tknowwhere thatwasbecausehe wasn’t “so good atgeometry.” After the longesttwentyminutes in history, heaskedmeifI’dliketocometo

the back porch with him,which I understoodwas codefor mashing our beakstogetherlikebabybirds.“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel

we know each other wellenough,” I told him. “But ifyouwantmyaddress,youcanhave it, andwe can seewhatdevelops.”As I left, Emily said she

saw him give me the fingerbehindmyback.

All night at Skylamar I’dhad this uncanny sense ofrecognition, like déjà vu butunceasing. I had been therebefore, knew the contours ofthe place; the bunks dottedthehillinafamiliarway.Thecafeteria building welcomedme. And as I lay in bed thatnight, I realized: this wasWenonah.Skylamarwasbuiltonthesitewheremymother’scamphadoncestood.

Thiswas theplace thatmymother had called home forten summers, where she hadmetthewomenwhowerestillsisterstohertodaydespitethegeographyand ideologies thatdivide them. This was whereshe had played Rhett Butleron the summer stage, beenintroduced to the joys ofinstant macaroni and cheese,and contracted a case of licethat necessitated cutting her

hairintoajaggedbob.Thisiswhere her parents left herwhen they decided to take aseven-week boat trip aroundEurope, wearing their finesthats.

After my first summer atFernwood Cove, it seemedpretty obvious to my parents

that I would not return.Despitemomentsofpleasure,I had sobbed hysterically onevery phone call home,wailing,“Pleasecomegetme.I’m begging you.” I feltganged up on by mybunkmatesandmisunderstoodby my counselors. I haddeveloped an “allergy towood.”

I was a quitter: of playdates, of dance class, of

Hebrew school. Nothing inmy history indicated I wouldstick it out. But whenDecember’s enrollmentdeadline rolled around, Ishocked my parents (andmyself): “I think I want togivecampanothertry.”“Are you sure?”my father

asked. “You didn’t seemhappy.”“No, you didn’t,” my

mother agreed. “You can do

daycamp.Ornocamp.”“I’m sure,” I said. “I think

it’simportant.”

Some ofmy campmemoriesactuallybelongtomymother.Certain images, though vividto me, are from stories shetoldmeinbed.Forexample,Ineverroasteddoughonastick

andthenfilledtheholeleftbythestickwithbutterandjam.That was her. I never caughttwofemalecounselorskissingon the archery range, pressedagainst a target, one’s handdowntheother’sshorts.Whenthe boys came to Wenonahfor a social they canoedacross the lake, arriving atdusk like an enemy tribe,storming the shore in tinyblazers. And although the

boys showed up at our campin a bunch of church vans, Ican still see them tying uptheir boats and spilling overthehillreadytopillageus.Sometimes I will find

myself telling one of thesestories to a group: the time Isaw two lesbians in action.Thebestsnacktomakeoverafire. It takes me a second torealize that I am lying. Mybest memories, the ones I

holddearest frommy timeatFernwood Cove, aren’t mineat all. They belong tosomeone else.My stories areterrible. No one will be asexcited to hear about mehidinginthebathroomtotakemy OCD medication. Thetime I stayed home from afieldtripwithafakemigraineisn’tanostalgiccrowdpleaser.Diarrheainacanyonduringalengthy hike isn’t right for

every audience. I can’trememberanyofthesongs.

In keeping with my life athomeinNewYork,my“truefriends” at camp were adultstaffmembers.The counselors were a

diversegroup,utterlysuitablefor an early season of TheRealWorld. Girls with belly-

buttonringsandankletattoos.Mormon guys in wifebeaterswho listened to gangster rap.Even the fat ones had hard,tan legs. They seemedcompletely under oneanother’s spells, seduced bytheir own youth and beauty.Thisbecameclearwhen,fromthewindowofmytopbunk,Isaw their wide white assescavorting on the dock pastmidnight when they were

supposed to be guarding ourlives.

The first summer I lustedafter acollege studentnamedBuddhu Bengay, who wasfromWesternMassandworerope sandals like JesusChristhimself.HehadacnescarringandmonstrousbigtoesbutthewayhetalkedremindedmeofMatthew Perry, so dry thateven regular words seemedfunny.We only spoke a few

times,thoughduringakitchenraid he did once pickme upand carry me back to mybunk.Ibeathischest,stunnedthat he was touching me. Hesmelled like deodorant, therealkind,nottheorganicstuffmyfatherwore.“No way, young lady,” he

saidashedepositedmeontheporch of Bunk Kingfisher.My legs shook, like I wassteppingontolandforthefirst

timeinweeks.I also flirted

withanattractionto Rocco, my

Australian “bunk uncle,”whoclaimed to be having a flingwith Diana Ross’s daughter,the improbably namedChudney. Though the malecounselors were not allowedto enter our bunkswithout atleast two female counselorspresent,Roccowouldoftensit

outside the screen door andtalk to us as the sun wentdown after dinner. He calledme Dunny, which, heexplained, was Aussie slangfor“toilet.”

But I foundmy truest loveduring my second summer,and his name was Johnny.Johnny McDuff. He wasblond, from South Carolina,and just shy of twenty-two.He dressed in Dickies and

Morrissey t-shirts andWayfarers. He played guitar,songs he’d written himselfwithtitles like“OogieBoogieGirl” and “Angel Watchin’over Me,” walked into thedining room late, with theeasy swagger of a first-bornchild. People said he had acrush on Kelsey the craftscounselor,butIdidn’tbelieveit. She wore a hemp anklet.She lay out to tan. She was

common.Johnny accompanied us on

anumberoffieldtrips.Itwasunderhiswatchfuleyethatwerodebumpercars,sawIKnowWhat You Did Last Summer,camped in a trailer parkwhere I heard a man scream“I’m fuckin’ done witchu” tohiswifeandspeedoffintothedarkness on his motorcycle.We went whitewater raftingwithaguidenamedBearwho

taught me the term“AMFYOYO” (an acronymfor “adios motherfucker,you’reonyourown”).Andwedrove four hours to a forty-footcliffwiththeintentionofjumpingoffofit.Onthewaythere,Idecided

I was going to jump first. Itwas a silent decision. Myskills as a camper wereundevelopedtosaytheleast.Iremainedafraidofthedark.I

won an award for “worst bedmaker.” I had gotten acrosstheropescourseexactlyonce,with help. Sometimes KarenandJojoplayedagamewheretheypushedmetothegroundthen timed how long it tookme to get up before pushingmedownagain.Jumpingfirst,before the rest of mybunkmates,wouldbeastrongmove to the basket, away toreverse my position as the

weakestandwhiniestmemberof Kingfisher. As the othergirls hemmed andhawed andpretended to be scared, Iwould step to the edge anddive effortlessly into thewater,slicingthesurfacewithmy hands slightly cupped—just like our diving instructorhadtaughtus.

Aswenearedthesiteinthevan,Icouldn’tcontainmyself.“I’m jumping the second we

getthere,”Iannounced.“Yeah,right,”Jojosaid.As the other girls set up

theirtowelsandadjustedtheirSpeedo two-pieces, Iapproached the edge of thecliff.Holyfuckingshit,itwashigh. The kind of height thatmakes your insides turn tojelly.“It’sa longwaydown, isn’t

it?” There was Johnny, rightbehindme. He was pink and

sunburnedinlittleblueshorts.He looked like aWorldWarIIsoldieronfurlough.“I’mcold,”Isaid.“Iwantto

waitasecond.”“It’s not gonna get any

easier,”hesaid.“I know. Imight not go at

all,” I told him, starting backtoward the other girls. I wasready to be mocked. I didn’tcare,justas longasIwasfaraway from that cliff. It goes

againstnaturetohurlyourselfoffagiantrockintoapoolofmurkywater.

“Itellyouwhat,I’llgowithyou.”

Nearly fifteen years later,my body goes wild justwriting this. I looked atJohnny.

“Really?”Henodded.“Hell,yeah.”“Count,”Isaid.“Okay.” He nodded,

stepping past me, a littlecloser to theedge.“I’mgoingto start now. Ready?One…two…”And we jumped. It wasn’t

thecleandiveIhadpictured.Ipanicked and wriggled in theairlikeanewkitten,tryingtoclaw my way back up again.Before I could process thesensation of falling I had hitthe water, hard and at thewrong angle. The cold

soothed the hurt soothed thefear.Johnnylandedamomentlater and when we surfaced,me sputtering and coughing,yanking my bathing suit outofmybuttcrack,henoddedarelaxed congratulations,flippinghisyellowhairoutofhiseyes.Later that afternoon, when

westoppedforsomeroadsideice cream, he asked to tastemy flavor, bubblegum. He

wrapped his tongue aroundmycone—inmymemory it’san impossibly thick, redtongue—and my insides felteven weirder than they hadduring the jump. I knew hewas sending me a secretsignal. We could play along,we could have fun with thegroup,butwewere toomuchforthisplace.

That night in my bunk, Iimagined shedding my

clothes, approaching Johnny,and letting himput his handsall overmy body.Maybe wewouldmeetoutside,inatent,downthepathinthewoods.Iwas practical enough toimagine that he would bringthecondom.

Our last summer, as

privileged seniors, we took abunk trip to New Hampshireto hike, camp, and see amovie. The trip waschaperoned by Rita-Lynn,Cheryl,andRocco,anditwasimpossible to tell who had acrush on who in thethreesome. As fifteen-year-old campers, we vaguelyresembledadults,andthevibeof the trip was distinctlycollegial, the counselors

addressing us like knowingpeers. They barely had toassert their authority and weamused ourselves, gossipingin the back of the van,journalingandsingingBritneySpearssongsatthetopofourlungs.Onthelastnightofthetrip

it rained and, using a campcredit card, our counselorschecked us into amotel.Weall gathered in Rita-Lynn’s

room to play cards and eatpeanut butter and jelly and Inoticed, out of the corner ofmy eye, Rocco opening abeer. And another. Andanother. He passed one toRita. One to Cheryl. Took aswigofhisown.I got up and motioned to

Rita to join me in thebathroom.“CanItalktoyouaminute?”Iasked.“What’s up?” she asked.

“Needatampon?”“No. I wanted to say that

I’m not really comfortablehavingtheonlyadultswhoarewithusdrinkingalcohol.”

Shelookedatmeblankly.“Several people in my

family have issues withalcoholabusesoitbringsupalotforme,”Itried.

“Dude.” She looked downat her Tevas. It was unclearwhethershewasfrustratedor

guilty. “I really thought you’dbecool.”On the last night of camp

we all wore white and theseniors sent candles out intothelakeontinyraftsandsang“I Will Remember You” bySarah McLachlan. Everyonesobbed and clutched at oneanother, making promises towrite,toneverforget.Icried,too, wishing the whole thingcould have been different,

that I could have beendifferent. I stared at mycandle until my eyes crossedand it disappeared into thedark.

Recently, I awoke from acamp dream so vivid ithaunted me the whole nextday. I was back at Fernwood

Cove, and I had one lastsummertomakeitcount.Ourbunk was still intact, and sowas my hymen. I wasn’tfocused on any guy, or onwriting home. We were allthere, all us girls, and welovedoneanotherdearly.

In this dream I had long,longhair,fulloffeathersandbeads,andIwasnakedonthedock. My body was longer,more limber, more like my

mother’s. I dove backwardinto the water, landingperfectly without disturbingthesurface.

ONEDAYATCAMP therewasafieldtripforthesoccerteam,so everyone in my bunk

clearedoutexceptme.Being alone—without the

drone ofmidwestern accents,without the rustle of hairbraidingortheslapofshowershoes—was so delicious. Idecided to skip mywaterskiing class and writeletters and nap.And anyway,what was the point? I nevereven got a real turn. Therewere too many of us in theclass, so mostly we just

shivered on the dock in ourlifejackets,listeningtoClaireB.crybecauseherfatherwasturningninety.ButthefewtimesIdidget

on skis, I found theexperience otherworldly: Iflew. Sometimes for mereseconds, but once it wasminutes. Three at least. Theworld sped by: boats andhouses and what looked likesketchesofpinetrees.UntilI

hit a choppy patch and,inexperiencedasIwas,wipedout hard. Skis flew, I didsplits that weren’t natural tome, and I hit the surface assfirst,nostrilssecond.Iwokeupatsunset,hotand

itchy, to the sound of mybunkmates returning homehighonvictory. “Wesmoked’em!” Madeleine shouted,hurling her dirty socks intomylowerbunk.

“They were slow andfaaat,” Emily squealed,stripping down to her sportsbra.“Sooo suu-pair coo-elll,”

Phillipine added in brokenEnglish, her dumb Frenchfacedementedwithpride.At bonfire the waterskiing

counseloraskedmewhereI’dbeen. “Everyone else was onthefieldtrip.Youwouldhavehad the whole hour all to

yourself.”Can you imagine what my

lifewouldbe likenowif thathadhappened?

AGUIDETORUNNINGAWAYFORNINE-YEAR-

OLDGIRLS

You want to run away. Youwant to runaway for a lotofreasons,butlet’sstartwiththemostimmediate:youaremad.At your father, because he’snottakingyouseriouslywhenyou say you think you’ll loseyour mind if you have tospend another night in your

bedroom alone, staring at themoon. He thinks you’rehaving kid problems. Hethinks kids have to “getthrough” their kid problems.He says, “just try andunderstand that it won’t getworse. The worst that willhappen is it will stay thesame.” This doesn’t comfortyou.Becausehedoesn’tknowthere’s something in you—big, explosive, ready to

surprise the world in a badway if you’re not handledright,butreadytobebeautifulifsomeonewilljustlisten.You are mad at your

mother because sometimesshe doesn’t pay attention andshesaysyestoaquestionthatneeds a different kind ofanswer. She is distracted.Whensheholdsyourhandit’stoo loose and you have toshow her how to do it right,

howtomakealittlehammockforyourfingers.Youaremadat your mother because she’ssitting on the porch in hercapri pants, talking on thetelephone, telling someoneelsethatyou’rehavingagoodsummer.You are mad to be

spending the summer in thecountry, where the days aretoo quiet and you have somuchtimetothink.Inthecity

you live onBroadway,wherethe noise is so thick yourscary thoughts can’t get awordinedgewise.Buthereinthe country, there is onlyspace.Onthestonebridgebythestream.Onthemossyrockat the edge of the yard.Behind the abandoned trailerwhere Art, the old man withthe glass eye, used to live.Space, space, space, and youcan scare yourself into

thinking your thoughts aremorelikevoices.Your godparents, also city

people, live a mile down theroad. She has red hair andcat’s-eye glasses; he is baldand does one voice toimpersonate all four Beatles.One day your godfather andyou get on your cordlessphones and leave the houseandsee ifyoucanmake it toeach other before they go

static. You see him crest thehill,waving, just as his voicecracklesanddisintegrates.Lastweekyourparentshad

a party. Everyone drove upfromthecity.Artists,writers,boyfriends, girlfriends, awomanwithpurpleeyebrows,and theyparked their cars allacross your lawn. Gregory’sbrother made wine out oflilacs,andyoutookthreesips,then pretended to be drunk,

making a big show out ofbeingunabletowalkastraightline, likeadrunkpersonon ILove Lucy. Around ten yourparents sent you up to yourroom and you listened to theparty burn down like acigarette, your little sisterbreathingbesideyou, a trustymachine.The day of the party had

been the worst one of thesummer. Your parents asked

you to do chores that didn’tseem fair, didn’t seem likeyourproblem,soyouwent tothe attic and you threw raweggs down at the front walk.Your father didn’t even seemangry, just put you to workscrubbing the stone with akitchensponge.The day after the party it

was all about cleaning up.And the day after that itwasallaboutdoingwork.Andthe

dayafterthatwasjustanotherday and everyone’s makingyousleepinyourbed.So now it’s time to run

away.First, you have to pack a

bag.It’sprobablybesttouseamini backpack, so as not toweigh yourself down. Youneedtobeabletomove.Youcanusethebaby-blueoneyouboughtsoyoucouldfeelmorelike Cher Horowitz in

Clueless.Butthenyouinsistedonwearingitduringdodgeballonthefirstdayofschool,andyoubecamethefourthgrade’smosthunted target.Niceone,weirdo.Intermsofpacking,allyou

neediscleanunderwearandaloafofbread.If you were running away

from your city house, it’d beeasy. You’d just go to thelobby and sit underneath the

rowofmailboxes.Rememberwhen your hairless cat tookthe elevator down all on hisown and hid inside the slotwhere Victor Carnuccio’spackages go? That was sofunny.If you were scared in the

lobby, watching lowerBroadway pass, you wouldn’tneed to be. Your motherwould come down soonenough and cotton to your

demands.But you’re at your country

housesoit’salittlebitharder.A good place to hide mightbe: out back, behind Art’strailer. You could also goaround the side of the oldchurch, but it smells dampand is at least a quarter of amile farther, and you hatewalking.Anicepersontobringwith

you, should you want a

companion, would be yourneighbor Joseph Cranbrook.Heisagoodkid,eventhoughhe acts crazy sometimes.(Like when he ripped yourscreen door off the hingesbecause you wouldn’t comeout to play with him. Yourdadtalkedtohimlikehewasan adult who had made amistake, which is how healwaystalkstokidsandwhichispartofwhyyouarerunning

away.)Josephmaybechubbyand sloppy now, his facealways covered in barbecuesauce and his only virtuesbeing that he owns a dinghyandhadtheideatodressasagorilla in suspenders forHalloween,butbeforewarnedthat, ten years from now, hewill still be short, but hewillalso be ripped, and he willjoin theairforceasanoutletfor his rage and youwill run

into him on Crosby Streetyourfreshmanyearofcollegeandhewillbethefirstpersonyou give a blow job to. Youwon’t finish, just administerone horrified lick, and hewon’t talk to you again. Hewill turn out to be “engaged”to a girl name Ellie who is agood foot taller than he andlives in South Carolina.Something called Facebookwill be invented where you

canlearnallofthis.When you run away, the

point is not to escape. Youaren’t actually trying todisappear. You just want toattractyourmother.Thegreatfantasy is that she’ssomewhere,watching,likethemother in Runaway Bunnywho becomes the tree, thenbecomes the lake, thenbecomes the moon. Yourmother becomes the mini

backpack and becomes theloafofbreadandbecomesthebed with the Devon Sawaposter above itwhere you goto sulk after it’s all over. Sheknows.Sheknows.

And eventually she comesand you get the kind ofattention you’ve been askingfor when you hang aroundwatching her talk on thecordless and flip through theJ.Crewcatalogcirclingthings

withaballpointpen.Shesaysshe understands, that oncewhen she was your age shehid in a garbage can for anhour,butnoonecameforherexcept her father’s dentalnurse.

Later in the summer yourgrandfather dies, and you’resecretly glad. You have aplace to put all your sorrownow, one that people willunderstand. You ride your

sister’stricyclebackandforthontheporch,lovingthesounditmakesasitscrapestheleadpaint from the floor. Yourparentsdon’tbelieveyou thatit’sleadpaintsoyouaskthemto drive you to the hardwarestore, where you purchase asmall kit to test it with. Thekitcontainsasmall tube, likealipstick,withaspongywhitetip that you drag across thearea you suspect of being

toxic. Then you wait, and ifthere’s lead in the paint thewhitewillturnbrightred.Thetest results comeupnegative,justgray from thedirtof theporch floor, and you aredisappointed.

AGUIDETORUNNINGAWAYFORTWENTY-SEVEN-YEAR-OLD

WOMEN

Noneofyourneighborsknowyou, so none of them wouldcare.Theyareallovereighty-five, and they don’t haveHBO.Youcouldhurlyourselfdown the garbage chute andbe found six days later,bleeding out into a pile of

adult diapers, and it wouldn’telicit more than a “Huh?”followed by a co-op meetingonhowtohandledisposingofthebody.If you don’t call your

parentsforaday,theyassumeyou’rebusyatwork,helpingafriend recover from a minormedicalprocedure,orfuckingyour boyfriend for seventeenhours straight. An hoursquatting behind a religious

structurewon’tcutitanymorewhenitcomestogettingtheirattention.Remember when you

discoveredyourfatherowneda book called How toDisappear and Never BeFound?You’resureitwasjustresearchfornewandcreativewaysofthinking,forconceptsthatmight apply to hiswork,but it raised the distinctpossibility that there is

something very upsetting thatpeople you love could doinsteadofdying.Youalreadyknewyourfatherwasmorbidbutassumedhewasashappyas he was constitutionallycapableofbeing,andthatwassome comfort. That thissuggests otherwise issomething you would rathernotfocuson.Thesedays, thetableshave

turned. You’re the one who’s

distracted while your mothertries to talk. You’re the onewho thinks fathers just needto get through their fatherproblems. Now you alwaysfall asleep before your littlesister—you drop her at thesubway stop and watch herdisappear belowground. Youhearshe’sagreatdancerfromfriendswhorunintoherwhenshe’soutatnight.You’ve always suffered

from dissociation. Whetherit’s clinical, as has beensuggested by at least twotherapists, or willful (“Areyou listening to me?” yourfatherisalwayssaying.“Icanfeel youdissociatingagain.”),youcan’t say, but that syrupyterror that characterizedsummernightsasanine-year-old sometimes lasts for daysnow.“You know that thing,

when you’re having sex, butinstead of feeling it you cansee yourself fromabove, likeyou’re watching a movie?”you ask your friend Jemimaone day as she’s painting younudeonhercouch.“Uh, no,” she says. “And

that’s really sad. Have youtalkedtoanyoneaboutthat?”Everyonetellsyouthatyou

looklikeyouraunt.Youhavethesamenose, thesamebutt,

and you hug the same way,like an overcompensatingkoala.Onedayshetellsyouastoryaboutwhenshewasfirstdatingherhusband.Sheknewshewasn’thisonlygirlfriend,but she liked him anyway.One evening he went out togetbeer and,when sheheardhim return, she pretended tobeasleep.Just toseewhathewoulddo.Wouldhecoverherwith a blanket? Would he

walk around like she wasn’tthere, make an importantphone call? Would he watchhersleep?You think thismust run in

thefamily.Youtriedthisjustlastweek,withthepersonyouare dating, and the resultsweredisappointing.The fact is, since that first

blow job, you haven’t gottenany more comfortable withsex. Every sexual encounter

hasfeltlikeafirstvisitwithanew general practitioner.Awkward, burdensome, alittle chilly. Eventually youlearn some buzzwords andpositionsthatmakethewholething flow more easily, andyoualwaysgointoitwiththebest intentions of notwatching yourself from thedoorframe like a not-very-incognitodetective.But you are still running

away.One version of running

away is to take a very longshowerwhile someone you’repretendingtolikesitsontheirbed watching trailers on thecomputer.Anotherversionisgettinga

UTI and, after hours ofstrained urination in abathroomthesizeofabucket,youslipoutwearingjustyournightgown, back to your

parents’ apartment, whereyour mother has set outantibiotics and cranberryjuice but has gone back tobed.Anotherversioniscallinga

cab in a haze of pills andgettinghomeat6:00A.M.onlyto realize you’ve left all yourvaluablesatthehomeofaguywhodoesn’twakeupuntiltwoand can’t be summoned fromhis narcotic sleep by the

buzzer.Anotherversionissneaking

off to meditate in themorning, then getting backinto bed like you neverslipped out. Another versionisjustmeditating.Other things you can try:

Sayingyou’resick.Sayingyoufelldowninthestreetbecauseof impractical shoes. Sayingwork ran late. Writing yourhead off. Saying you’re sick

again. Saying you’re a personwho gets sick a lot. Goingradio silent, then saying youlost your cell phonesomewhere in your bed.Going to work and stayingtherealldaylong.Listeningtoa Taylor Swift song aboutdancing in the rain. Notjogging.Neverjogging.Soonyouwillfindyourself

in more and more situationsyou don’t want to run from.

At work you’ll realize thatyou’vespent theentireday inyour body, really in it, notimaginingwhat you look liketo the people who surroundyou but just being who youare.You are a tool being puttoitsproperuse.Thatchangesalotofthings.Andone day you’ll get out

of bed to pee, and someonewill say, “I hate it when youleave,” and you will want to

rushback.You’ll think, Stufflike this only happens tocharacters played by JenniferGarner, right? but it’shappeningtoyouanditkeepshappeningevenwhenyoucryor misbehave or show himhow terrible you are atplanning festive groupoutings.Heseemstobetherewithout reservation. He paysattention. He listens. Heseemstowanttostay.

Sometimes that old feelingslips back in. Of beinginvaded and misunderstood.Of being outside your bodybutstillintheroom,likewhatyou imagine a spirit doesimmediately after death.Youusedtoownthenightandputit to good use, during thatsweet spot after your fathercouldnolongertellyouwhentogo tosleepandbeforeyoushared an apartment with

someone else. Is togethernesskilling your productivity?When’s the last time youstayed up until 4:00 A.M.

testingtheboundariesofyourconsciousness and Googlingserialkillers?

But then you rememberhowharditwas,thatmomentbetween wakefulness andsleep. How the moment ofsettling down was almostphysically painful, yourmind

pulling away from your bodylike a balloon being suckedinto the atmosphere. Hesettles that. He tells you thatyourdaywasrichenoughandnow it is time towind down.He helps you sleep. Peopleneedsleep.

You’ve learned a new ruleand it’s simple: don’t putyourself in situations you’dliketorunawayfrom.

Butwhenyourun,runback

toyourself,likethatbunnyinRunaway Bunny runs to itsmother, but you are themother, and you’ll see thatlaterandbevery,veryproud.

I WOULD LIKE TOgratefully acknowledge thefollowing people, who were

instrumental in the writingandpublicationofthisbook:PeterBenedek,thegreatest

friend and champion. I oweyou somuch,which iswhy Igiveyou10percentofallmymoney. Jenny Maryasis, youare a most literary andforthright woman in a worldfull of dummies who lie.Thankyouboth.Kimberly Witherspoon,

thankyouforencouragingme

totakeupallthespaceIneed,both in a chair and on thepage.Jodi Gottlieb, who really

keepsitclassy.Susan Kamil, Gina

Centrello, and the rest of theRandomHousefemme-squad.Abeautifulbunch.Andy Ward, you are the

besteditoragirlwhousestheword“vagina”alotcouldeverask for. Your careful,

attentive, and brilliant workon this book has had animpact far beyond thesepages. Hi, Abby and Phoebe☺.David, Esther, and the

whole Remnick/Fein clan:your friendship and wisdomhavebeenabalmtomysoul.Thank you for the endlesshumor, encouragement, andmatzobrie.JoanaAvillez,youdrawthe

world I wish to inhabit. Thisbook is a document of ourtwenty-five-yearfriendship.Ilene Landress, who keeps

me going, keepsmeon time,andmakesmeveryhappyJenni Konner: my best

friend, my partner in workand crime. It’s not acoincidence that shortly afterImetyouIstoppedlosingmyvoice.Everyday,thankyou.Iloveyou,MackandCoco!

My family: Your art,humor, and love are myreason.I’msorryIkeepdoingthis to you. Laurie and Tip,I’mdoneatleastuntilyoudie.ButGrace, you aren’t off thehookquiteyet.Aunties SuSu and

Bonmom, Grandma Dot,Uncle Jack, the cousins whoare here and who are gone,RickandShiraandRachum.Jack Michael Antonoff.

These words would neverexist if not for your love andsupport. Thank you formaking a life and homewithme.Isabel Halley, Audrey

Gelman, Jemima Kirke—friends and muses. Thefunniestandprettiestofthemall.A hearty thank-you to all

thebrassyfolksIinteractwitheverydayontheInternet,who

have supported my self-expression, challenged meplenty, and confirmed myultimatehopethattheworldisfullofkindreds.I have received help,

encouragement, andinspiration from many. Thislistincludes,butisnotlimitedto: Ericka Naegle, MikeBirbiglia, Leon Neyfakh,AliceGregory,Miranda July,Delia Ephron, Ashley C.

Ford, Paul Simms, CharlieMcDowell and the Roon,Murray Miller, SarahHeyward,BruceEricKaplan,Judd Apatow, B. J. Novak,the New Yorker magazine,Glamour magazine, Rookiemagazine, HBO, MindyKaling,AliciaVanCouvering,Matt Wolf and CarlWilliamson, Teddy Blanks,Roberta Smith and JerrySaltz, Taylor and all her

songs, Polly Stenham, LarrySalz, Kassie Evashevski,Richard Shepard, DavidSedaris, Zadie Smith, TomLevine, Maria Santos, ArielLevy, Kaela Myers, MariaBraeckel,TomPerry,TheresaZoro, Leigh Marchant, ErikaSeyfried,andLamby.

LENA DUNHAM is the creatorof the critically acclaimedHBO series Girls, for whichshe also serves as executiveproducer,writer,anddirector.She has been nominated for

eight Emmy awards and haswon two Golden Globes,including Best Actress, forher work on Girls. She wasthe first woman to win theDirectors Guild of Americaaward for directorialachievement in comedy.Dunham has alsowritten anddirected two feature-lengthfilms (including TinyFurniture in 2010) and is afrequent contributor to The

New Yorker. She lives andworks in Brooklyn, NewYork.