Carrie Queen. 6th grade. Legs as hot as can be expected on a 12 year old. Deliciously orange skin, crisp and telling of her privileged upbringing along the golf courses of Durham, North Carolina.
Me? Greasy Hair. Slightly undersized checkered O.P. t-shirt barely containing my slightly oversized tummy. Duran Duran trapper keeper. Skin pastey and pale - pigmented only by the soft glow eminating from my Commodore 64. Never kissed a girl in my life.
2 weeks of build-up. I would ask her to accompany me to the movies. Or perhaps to simply join me in a conversation on the telephone (I assumed she didn't own a modem.) Long discussions with my mother, sleepless nights, neglected meals, and desperate prayers to God Almighty finally brought me to one unforgettable lapse in cowardice as I asked my friend to ask her if she would go out with me.
In one incredibly vicious swing of that saw-toothed tongue Carrie Queen not only rejected the offer, but provided my new identity that would last for at least 2 years .
