Then you came home in April, tight-lipped and glowing with a secret. You corrected me when I guessed that you’d lost your virginity: “Misplaced it, really,” you said, familiar mischief dancing in your eyes. “I’m sure it’ll turn up somewhere.”
And oh how I tried to follow in your footsteps, imagining myself returning in summer with my own tale of conquest. But that awkward, sweaty origami of knees and elbows with some hapless, over-eager boy in Tri-Kap? It felt more like botched homework than anything to brag about. I said nothing, settled for partial credit and tried to move on.