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was supposed to be a homemaker, which in those days was pretty radical because everybody was enslaving themselves to corporations and shoving their kids into daycare. Classmates used to tell me I was so lucky to have my mom at home, which I was before she started self-mutilating. We made popsicle-stick castles and baked cookies. She taught me how to ride a bike. She and Damian were on some list to adopt another kid but it was impossible to find one who wasn’t damaged by drugs or alcohol. I wanted a brother or sister, preferably a sister. I imagined we’d be one happy family like on TV . I pretended to talk to my sister at night when I couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t sleep either and always agreed with me about what jerks people were.
    There must be some twisted reason why my biological mother wants to meet me all of a sudden. Maybe she’s got cancer and wants to fill me in on my rotten genes. Or maybe her legitimate spawn got killed in a car crash. Or her son got an ak-47 and shot up a cafeteria and she can’t cope with the revelation that she raised a monster.
    The football-slash-hockey crowd trot onto the track. You’d like to think such cretins are extinct, only to be resurrected in Hollywood movies. Unfortunately, jocks still rule. We girls watch them jog around, warming up for some macho-man activity. According to Doyle, the football-slash-hockey boys can get any girl they want. He said this as though it doesn’t get better than being able to shove your noodle up any girl you want. Rossi was given the honour of being nailed by one of the football hulks. She said he ‘fucked me hard,’ which doesn’t sound too charming. She said it was ‘athletic sex.’ I said, ‘Did you like it?’
    â€˜He’s got a great body.’
    â€˜Did you like it?’
    â€˜It’s not that simple.’
    â€˜Why isn’t it that simple?’
    â€˜There are parts you like and parts you don’t like.’
    â€˜What parts didn’t you like?’
    â€˜He kept pushing my head down to his crotch. He’s like, a total blow-job freak.’
    I watch the blow-job freak do some stride jumps. I want to grab his head and shove it into some jock’s stinking crotch. I’ve never been able to compute why girls are expected to suck boys off and yet the ultimate degradation for a straight male is to suck another male’s penis. ‘Suck my cock, you cocksucker!’ they yell at each other. So why is it an honour for girls to get on their knees and gag on some dullard’s jewels? No equality of the sexes there. Rossi started out providing fellatio as an alternative to sexual intercourse because she knew her mother would freak if she found out Rossi had lost her virginity. But the boys got bored with that pretty quick.
    â€˜What about you? ’ I asked her once. ‘Are you bored with it?’
    She shrugged. She doesn’t factor into it. I don’t know how that happened. She looks in the mirror and frets about what guys will think of her. What she thinks of herself doesn’t matter anymore.
    The twist with the current supremo jock is that he wants to be a rap star even though he’s white and is going to end up selling insurance or something. His car stereo always blares gangsta rap about ‘what that ho needs.’ Meanwhile, Queen Bee Kirsten and her ladies are cheerleaders. The revival of cheerleading is a twenty-first-century tragedy in my opinion. It is truly painful watching them twitch their glutes and spread their legs. Rossi auditioned but they wouldn’t have her. Somebody taped a bottle of Rid, the poison you smear on your pubic hair when you get crabs, to her locker this morning. I grabbed it before she saw it. Kirsten’s crowd has been staring at her, hoping for signs of humiliation. Rossi, of course, thinks they’re paying special attention to her eensy-weensy tank-top-and-capris combo.
    In Social Studies Mrs.