He jokes, I've always been scared of pretty girls. Then, he looks at me and says, No, not like that, like, high school pretty. Then, You know what I mean, and I say that I do. I do know what he means. Because I do.
He means pretty like the way a high ponytail fits when it falls between two spiky shoulder blades, pretty like the shadow a mini skirt casts on a pair of legs, pretty like the knees bent and the elbows straight like a cheerleader's, pretty like a thick ring of black eyeliner, pretty like when the freckles come out, pretty like two girls in two-pieces walking towards an ice cream truck in the middle of the day, pretty like a blue tank top and pink lip gloss, pretty like the hand that wipes it away, pretty like nail polish with hardly any chips, pretty like vanilla perfume with glitter in it, pretty like shiny Disney glam, pretty like a pop-princess prom dress and a flower that matches. And for the first time since I grew up, I wish I was pretty like that. Just to scare the fuck out of him.
Ways of Going Home