second can, swished, and spat, before ashing in the first can. “I need a system. Ideas?”

“Ashtray?”

Jean cackled. “Youth,” she said. “Don’t miss it one bit.” They looked at each other. “I need a nap. Too much excitement.” She lumbered off to her bedroom. Inside, she yelled, “Pick a room upstairs. Any room. But only one’s got a bed. TV’s out there. Don’t futz the antenna. You’ll get used to the fuzz.”

Julie chose the room with the bed. Rusted trumpets and champagne flutes and glittery paintings of horses cluttered the floor. She playfully tried on a pair of wigs. Both were harboring spiders. She left the dresses alone. On the shelf over the headboard sat a family of Caribbean dolls, their black legs like charred little dicks. She lay down and stared at the soles of their feet.

And Julie, Julie, Julie, what did I know about Julie?

She was Ridge High’s primary subject of gossip and teenage hyperbole. Unclassifiable. A confounding mixture of types: straight As and booze on her breath, 1,024 varsity points, red thong glowing through white cotton sweats, boyfriends in faraway places — college professors, junkies who lived off the sale of sheet metal scrap, astronauts  — an acceptance letter from Yale, we heard, shredded, confettied, tossed in the trash. Nerds studied her moods and concluded that Julie, when stressed, bought strawberry shortcake at lunch. Jocks tried to get with her, ‘cause her twat, we were told, made people fucking invincible. Other girls thought her close-minded, kookily smart, a slut and a prude: chimeric. She scared the stoners and malcontents. They thought her early departures from parties evidenced rougher proclivities — weed and huffing were too straight edge for Julie — when in truth the drugs made her nervous.