Ark
“I need a man who will kiss me like he’s about to be sent to the firing squad,” Shelby declared between drags of her cigarette. “What kind of man are you looking for, Julia?”
“I dunno.” I picked at my scabs. “Somebody nice, I guess.”
We’d been sitting on the football bleachers of our high school field, watching the junior boys on their warm-up run. They were a small army made up of sharp elbows and concave chests, rosy cheeks blemished by freckles and acne. Shelby insisted they were handsome.
I looked over at her, admiring her translucent skin and dark, Mary Quant–inspired bob haircut. A delicate blue vein pulsed at her temple.
Shelby had spent that summer living in France with her aunt and uncle. She had developed an expansive vocabulary and a languorous, world-weary attitude.
A
