I had a crush on David first. He was short, squashed and hairy, but in a totally pretty way, with long eyelashes and interesting teeth: crooked, already yellowing at seventeen.

Lack of grace united David and I: we met in remedial phys ed. Mrs. Patterson, the instructor, had mesmerizingly enormous calves. “Finishing school for lesbians,” David snickered.

Like that, I was hooked on his faggoty charms.

David shuffled along the track wearing cowboy boots, a sweater vest and very tight jeans. His belly spilled over the straining top button, which made me want to sink teeth into fur. “Why can’t talking on the phone count as physical education,” David whined.

I closed my eyes and kept on jogging. Obstacles interrupted my feet. When I fell, a row of asterisks skidded through the pink dark of my lids. I took a breath and invited David to the prom.

David plucked his eyebrows nervously, gazing down at my spilled limbs. “I know you’re not that into girls,” I said. “But don’t worry. I’m not that into boys.” I paused. “To be honest, though, I do have a crush on you. Or at least on your jeans.”

David considered this in silence. “Okay,” he said, “but first you have to meet Mona.”