It seems like everything he’s ever said to me takes on a new meaning. For instance, I remember one summer when we were thirteen, our parents decided to take our families on a group trip to a large amusement park. Now, you have to understand something, and I say this with all modesty: when I was thirteen, I was hot. I wasn’t awkward or frizzy haired or whatever like a lot of other thirteen-year-olds. I was freaking hot. My mother rejected three outfits I tried on before she finally approved a skin-tight pair of jeans and a tank top that clearly outlined my perky little nipples. (God, I’m a little jealous of my thirteen-year-old self.) I was wearing my usual globs of black eye makeup, which I had only recently discovered and was smearing on without much restraint. I don’t think it looked bad, but in retrospect, I’m sure I looked like a huge whore. Jason’s older brother Randy was sixteen, and he had begged out of the trip, saying there was “no fucking way”
