This content is available to subscribers and issue purchasers.
Shoshauna Shy I know what to look for: limp hair not tinted, wrists void of decoration, a shyness in the stance. Teen or Tiger Beat replaced with gentle precision: She is alone, not checking a clock. These are gray-sweatered girls fathers have forgotten, teachers haven’t time for, young boys ignore. I sidle up, murmur, You could model blue jeans, and with a blush she denies it, looks at her feet, stammers. I flip through a copy of Seventeen, claim, This brunette here, nowhere pretty as you, and before long she’s laughing, eyes grateful, aglow. I smell the lemon scent shampooed