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 goes from monja-below-the-knee to chica-chévere-above-the-thigh. I sigh and sigh at the sight of my skinny hairy legs remembering how mami wanted to take me to the wax lady earlier in the week because, apparently, no man will ever love you con ese fur ...
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