My mother hated my Freshman year, “dancing partner,” as she called her, for all the reasons I loved her. She was kicked out of Miss Jean’s Charm School. She wore more denim than anyone else I ever met. None of it was bedazzled. Unfortunately, we never actually, “danced.”
She was a rebel in training. She had the energy and desire to give the world the middle finger. I was an outsider, but I wanted in. She saw me as the muscle and the planner that could give here rebellion substance. Then she met the guitar player with a bitchin’ Camaro.