I remember the feel of her hipbone in my hand as I caught her. It was like a dagger, pressing into my soft palm and cutting into my consciousness with an almost astonishing revelation. Her red hair splayed out behind her as she tumbled forward, drawing me with her into the soft New England grass. We collapsed in a heap on top of each other, laughing hysterically, and the only thing I could feel was the smooth grass beneath me and the sun heating my face as we absorbed the intimacy of this moment, not between us, but around us. I felt the grass and then I felt her, shaking with laughter and her bones seemed to rattle and protest, hollow in her body.

“Hurry with the sticks, you guys!” my friend Brianna yelled from across the yard. She stood in a small circle of dirt where there was a ring of rocks and piles of tinder around her. Her jet black hair encircled her shoulders and the winged liquid liner that protruded past her eyes fluttered as she blinked through the hot August sun. The sound of laughter and polite conversation danced in the air from the BBQ that my parents were hosting in the backyard. I chanced one more glance at the fire-headed girl, whose pale body gleamed in the sunlight, the sun bouncing off of her sharp cheekbones and showering onto her flaming hair. Her legs were matchsticks and her arms had every edge that modern society demands. She ran like an uninhibited filly over to Brianna and offered her the sticks we had collected in the backyard. I watched the two of them, both beautiful and young and unsure of themselves. I was haunted by what I was feeling. The thought that I would never be good enough for her, whose steel willpower and incessant self-hate had reaped razor edges and the ability to draw stares from strangers on the street, plagued me every time I looked at her.

As we crouched over our pathetic attempt at destruction, I thought that I could write novels on my inadequacy.