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For my thirteenth birthday, my parents had gotten me tickets to fly down to LA. It was my first plane ride by myself. I was a teenager now; my life was beginning; I was on my way to visit my year-old sister, my idol.
My sister tore through her closet, pulled out a babydoll dress, white tights with stencils of old-timey pistols, and patent-leather Mary Janes. She sat me on the lid of the toilet then she drew on my lips, teased my hair, went in for my eyebrows with tweezers.
She got a sitter for my nephew and drove us to the mall in her rumbly Mazda, parked in a lot where the automated gate spoke to us in a tinny voice.
It was and aside from my sister, Courtney Love was my icon: tear-smeared eyeliner and torn dresses, bruises and barrettes. My girlfriends shared my Courtney Love infatuation. We were in the eighth grade, raunchy and giggly with budding breasts inside training bras. We were being unleashed onto the world, something was unleashing inside of us, and suddenly there were men everywhere: men at the bus stops; men on the sidewalks; men at the backs of the BART trains and in cars driving by. Men who stared and whistled and licked their lips, who sidled in close to us and grazed their hands casually past our waists and butts.