I started high school miserable. By my sophomore year, I was looping Sinead O’Connor on my headphones, the album with “Nothing Compares to You” and “I am Stretched on your Grave,” and trying not to
Three people had died on the rollercoaster, each decapitated by a wooden plank. He told her this as the lap bar lowered over them and locked. “Their ghosts haunt the tunnel,” he said, and the
Girls, sweating in their polyester knickers, await their turns at the plate. Ankles clacking, mouths breathing, “We want a pitcher, not a belly-itcher!” Coach Agliolo frowns.
Bench 1 watches,