She wore her hair in a french braid for special occasions. She liked horses, and flowers that smelled pink and maybe a boy, and there were things she didn't tell her mother.
He was quiet, and he dressed like it was cold; summer break was over, he was a new boy in her school, the idea of him seemed as crisp as autumn air. The girls called him conceited then tried to catch
his eye. The guys called him a fag and it made the girls try
harder.
In a loopy, cursive script she wrote, Would you like to see a movie. He wrote back, Which
one, in block letters. She
scribbled, It doesn't matter, he
scribbled back, Okay, she wore her hair in a french braid for the
occasion.
In the cool dark she tried to hold his hand and it was softer than
she'd expected. She touched his chest and ran her fingers down, searching.
He was quiet and he dressed like it was cold, the autumn air was crisp with possibility. She liked flowers that smelled pink and the new boy in her school, and there was something she couldn't
tell her mother.