Do you remember the time we were driving down Main Street in your dad's old blue Monte Carlo and "Fast Car" played on the radio? You said the song was ours. What a fucking cliché. You and I were just two punk kids from a small town covered in dust and hopelessness. We were lucky to graduate from high school after all the ditching and partying we did. But we dreamed big. Do you remember? You were waiting to hear from that record company your band sent a demo to and I was going to write a novel that would make Stephen King shit his pants. We would move to Los Angeles, buy a three story glass cube, and invite our famous neighbors over for sushi and séances. We would attend our class reunion in a blood red Mustang. That asshole quarterback who lied about me sucking his dick in the back of his Camaro would challenge us to a race and we'd smoke him. Everyone would comment on our matching black leather dresses and thigh high boots. You with your blue hair and me with my purple. Those two cheerleaders that always talked shit to you would beg for tickets to your next concert, and the principal who swore I'd never amount to much would ask me to sign his copy of my book. Keanu Reeves would be in your music videos, and would play the main character in the movie based on my book. Either way, he would be a vampire. Do you remember those days? The days before your father caught us kissing and heavy petting in your bedroom after we'd gotten into his tequila, and he told you he'd kick you out. The days before you told me you had nowhere else to go and you'd have to live by his rules. The days before your father called my parents and told them I was a "pinchi bruja," and they forced me to go to confession every week for a month. The days before I stopped dying my hair and started working the register at the supermarket around the corner. The days before you moved to the next town over with some guy I knew you didn't love and took a job at the daycare your Tia Rosa owned. Do you remember? Because I wish I could forget.
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