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  • Lying out on the grass sometime in high school. Pale blue bathing suit that I loved, a zipper between my breasts which had suddenly sprouted on me like weeds in foreign soil. Lying out in the sun with my little boom box playing Top-40 radio. I was waiting for Madonna's new song: La Isla Bonita. Which I loved. Waiting and dozing and feeling the heat of New England August on me, feeling the ants and sweat and sweat bugs and the heat on me made me want to try sex, made me want to kiss a girl, made me want to run away and be someone new, someone who laughed and chatted and knew how to make friends. Heat on me made me liquid and lazy and popular and brown like the girls who had swimming pools, even though it was a waste since it was only warm enough for a month, maybe a month and a half. But they were brown all over and well-groomed and smooth and luscious and even though they were mean and called me dyke and didn't invite me to their pool parties, I liked to think of them kissing each other in their little bathing suits by their unworldly blue swimming pools. The sun on me and I was itchy and hazy and waiting waiting waiting.

    When the song came on, was it Casey Kasem announcing then? I don't remember. When the song came on I was asleep and dreaming that I had heard it start in time to press the red record button. But when I woke up the song was nearly over and I hadn't recorded it and I was resigned then to sit it out in the sun another four hours, if the boom box batteries would last, because I knew they played all the same songs every four hours, like there was only four hours' worth of music in the whole world, in one day you could memorize every word to every song and turn brown and beautiful and hairless and loved, all at the same time.
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