“massage parlor” after “massage parlor.” But our site was too
steeped in history and tradition to even entertain the thought of
relocation. And I think, though we dared not admit it, we treasured
our ability to step off campus and hear a plethora of languages
exchanged, see sarongs instead of plaid skirts and feel unsafe at the
prospect of seedy men who lingered in shadowy corners. Though
no one would print this on our admissions brochures, it was good
to encounter an unsterilized world. At least, that’s what I told
time.
I had passed a beggar, a little teahouse, and an overzealous
freelance foot masseuse when I realized I hadn’t heard Karina’s
giggle in a few minutes. The anxious silence of unfamiliarity
echoed in my head.
“Rina! Rina! Where are you?”
“Over here, Annie!” she shouted back, ever tolerant yet
distracted.
Ducking between the masseuse and a bakery that smelt
as Dirty Curtains. Sometimes Karina stole away during lunch and
brought me a fortune cookie from there, still grubby from its home
beneath the infamously dusty window shades. She would leave it
in my locker; she could crack a padlock with the same carelessness
that I tied my saddlebacks.
Peering ahead through the scraggly bushes, I spotted a
speck of blue plaid. She had crept down the angled wall and into
the ditch.
“Is it safe for me to come down, Rina?”
Her reckless laugh answered me.
Edging slowly down the ditch’s side, I noticed the gray
slime transferring to my hands as I clung to the cement. It had the
semisweet odor of petroleum gas and corn syrup and ramen and the
itself to my shoe. My dad would be suspicious.
Finally arriving at Karina’s perch, I saw why she had
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