coming of age
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I remember the tacky touch of plastic wrapped around the cases. My lids blink slow and heavy. In front of me, CDs are stacked in tight rows. I’m in the S section.
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Her Converse scraped the dashboard, leaving a smear of chalky dust. She sat in the passenger seat, eyebrow pencil in hand. As the second oldest, that spot was hers by right. My mother drove, straight-backed, wearing a navy blue dress with a high neckline. At red lights she’d check the rear-view, stealing quick glances at…
