She was the kind of girl who, when she walked into the room, ruined your life. You were never the same, and you wouldn’t want to be. We used to tell each other stories of the stray smile she gave us, the time she asked us a question about calculus, the time one of the buttons on her shirt came loose and we could see her bra, the time she got dumped at the biggest party of the year, the time she ran her car onto the sidewalk and almost hit the minister, the time she smelled like cheap booze by third hour.
I remember that I absently nodded to her father at her visitation. He didn’t see me.
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