I’m starting the story in the bathroom because I like that image: four horny sad girls in full Catholic school uniform checking out the height of their skirts in the bathroom mirror. I am The Saddest and take pride on etching the tristeza on my face — un poquito de blank stare por aquí, un poquito de indignant air por allá — like I’d seen my tías do. It’s the late nineties, I’m thirteen and, already, as you can see, I’m a professional at the performance of suffering. A professional in reeling you in with with my ayys and sighs and nobody will ever love me — the essentials of Colombian girl world — which brings us back to the bathroom: I take first dibs on the only bathroom stall with a lock and start rolling the top of my skirt so it go...
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