There was just something about him. He was cute enough; in fact quite handsome by anyone’s measure. He was certainly neat, almost natty as her history teacher Mr. Hollowell would call the 1930’s gangsters he was always going on about. He seemed kind and polite and friendly enough. Hell, he was nearly perfect if she thought about it, as compared to most of the boys her age who had asked her out. But there was just something, something she couldn’t put her finger on, something that made her skin tighten whenever he smiled at her too long. So Nancy declined his offer to see a movie and go for a drive in his Volkswagen Bug. She’d leave Ted Bundy to the other girls, she was not willing to trust him over her instinct no matter how silly it was.
A Wrong Turn at Pubertyville
I’d spent every minute of my formative years in search of enjoyment. I was a true hedonist in training, there was almost nothing beyond my reach whether age appropriate or not. In fact the word appropriate was not in my vocabulary. Booze? I had a half gallon of cheap wine every Friday night and refilled the bottle with half vodka and half orange juice for Saturdays; and if I were rich I’d do the latter again and add a splash of Galiano for the Sabbath. Sex? I’d started at the age of 13 and though I didn’t brag about my encounters, I knew I was keeping up with my peers because they did. Drugs? Barbs, meth, coke, smack, enough acid to bring Freud back to life. What about school? School you say? Now there was a distraction…