“The old ones are always perverts,” says Jane.

An old guy in a Ford truck slows down and honks. We gallop, tossing our hair and doing the Hitchhike. I’ll pick up your hand and slowly blow your little mind. Donovan is singing “Sunshine Superman”:Īny trick in the book now, baby, all that I can find. Clouds are swelling in the hot blue sky, and cars are zinging past us on Halsey Street. We have seven minutes to make it back to Sacred Heart Academy or there will be hell to pay. I’m still tying my shoes when Jane pushes me off the curb. ” Actually, the imitation works as a flash reminder that out of my three, possibly four, attainable futures, there’s at least one to be avoided at all costs. “Great GOD, Mary Margaret! Pull your dress down! Knees together! Wipe off the lipstick! Spit out the gum!. Her hands tremble as if she’s fighting her instinct to strangle me. Or rather, she imitates my imitation and exaggerates it. “Great God, Mary Margaret, I’m just trying to help!” This is Jane’s campaign: helping me to choose something outside my usual box of predictables. You want to try it?” She reaches into her black leather bag, takes out the nail polish, and shakes it. “Look here,” says Jane, wiggling her toes. Jane’s legs are in another league completely. My legs are freckled and milky and dented with elastic marks from my knee-highs. My new best friend, Jane, and I are sitting in the alley behind Rexall Drugs with our socks peeled off, trying to tan ourselves on our lunch break. We’ve got wicked gorgeous legs,” Jane says.

Bad Tickets by Kathleen O'Dell