Finally, after classes, the other pretty girls invite me to the locker rooms to drink. I sit on the radiator, enjoying the warmth under the seat, and let them repeat their stories to me.
“What about Connor?”
“Sexy. I’d say sexy. Definitely.”
They’ve hiked their skirts up well past their knees. I look at their legs—perfect, shaven, clean. Mine are chapped like the skin on a dog’s elbow.
“What about you, Liz?”
“What about me,” I ask.
“Is he—Connor, I mean—do you think he’s sexy?”
I nod, and they laugh with me. Although I’m not sure what they mean. I’m not sure any of the boys are attractive. Or that I’ve ever had a crush, really.
Then someone brings up Henry Krushing, and their voices surge, the giggles becoming frantic, and one girl screams, “He’s darling!”
For weeks, I sing it with them like a dirty song, in a low register, all of us croaking down the halls: “He’s darling, he’s darling, he’s darling!”