When I was 15, at my parents’ annual New Years Eve party, a man in his late 40s wrapped his arm around my shoulder from behind. If he felt the way his wild eyes raised the hair on the back of my neck, he didn’t let on as he leaned his weight into me. I wore a borrowed dress: long and black and too adult for my teenage frame, my recently cropped hair doing nothing to hide the rounded cheeks I was so ashamed of. All signs pointed towards my youth, blowing my cover as my parents’ effortlessly mature younger daughter, equal parts capable and eager to do what was asked of her. But the champagne-sipping lawyers and small town politicians and mommy bloggers who filled our kitchen every year played along like they were paid for it. “How’s the college search (you’re two years away from) going? You got a boyfriend yet (and are you having sex with him)? You look very thin (and though I’ve caught wind of the fact that you don’t exactly look healthy, I’m going to congratulate you. Surely you understand).” The man on my arm, between laughs, finally took a moment to address me. “Well
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Dollface – Talkhouse
