I emerge from the closet with an outfit to wear to my doctor’s appointment and some reading material to kill the time. I’m wrapped in the nostalgia of worn denim and plaid, and a little black T-shirt with the word skater on it — an ancient artifact from the time before it was spelled with an 8. I flip through my grade twelve yearbook.

There we are, Loch Bhreagh Rural Consolidated School’s Class of ’95. Fifty young faces preserved in shades of grey. Glossy, air brushed, and earnest with our First Loves, Final Destinies, and Favourite Quotes. Allie’s long, pin-straight blonde hair spills over her shoulders onto her symmetrical, enviable rack. Her wide, steady eyes and her beauty of a smile. Allie’s First Love was “Mom’s chocolate chip cookies.” Her destiny was to “buy a Shaggin’ Wagon De-Luxe and change her name to Dr. Feelgood.” Her quote, some trite shit about crying over spilled milk only making it salty for the cat, was stolen from a poster in the guidance counsellor’s office. Allie spent a lot of time in there with me, handing me Kleenex as I sobbed to Mr. Patterson about another pet cat’s tragic demise. He never caught on that such trauma only ever seemed to surface when Allie and I had double gym class after lunch.

A few pages later, there’s my other best friend, kooky, cocky Char MacIsaac. She threatened the yearbook editor, Becky Chickenshit, with a puck in the tits if she printed her real name, which was Charlotte. Char’s grad portrait looks more like a mug shot. Her snaggle-toothed smirk and angular, freckled face are framed by an electric mess of tight orange curls. Her slightly off-centre left eye is framed by a big black shiner that was too big and too dark to be airbrushed out without making the entire eye disappear. Which was fine by Char. She earned that shiner in a fight against Scary Sylvia out behind the rink after a dance. Char’s First Love was “adrenaline rushes,” her destiny was “to set the world record for full body orgasms while nude skydiving.” And she quoted herself: “Shut up, before I puck you in the tits.” Which Becky snuck past the yearbook staff advisor, because she was scared of getting pucked in the tits.

Every few months, I get a quasi-coherent Facebook message from Char. Scattered stories about how she hitchhiked across Europe with a three-legged pit bull that she rescued from an underground dog fighting club. Detailed descriptions of her days spent teaching English at a posh private school in Thailand, and nights spent performing exotic, drug-­enhanced sex rituals in the forest with men dressed as Buddhas. Tales of her tumultuous love affair with a twenty-year-old Congolese diamond smuggler. Somehow, that self-destructive danger junkie is still alive and kicking. Much to everyone’s surprise.

I flip back to the page with me on it. My hair is poufed like a mouse-brown Christmas tree. My cheeks avoid looking chubby, more by good luck than good management. A tight pseudo-smile. My quote is from the chorus of “Me and Bobby McGee.” The part about freedom. About having nothing left to lose. Attributed to Janis Joplin. Mama was miffed at me because I “knew damn well it was Kris Kristofferson.” I also knew damn well that it was better to be cool than correct. First Love: “the sound of my own voice.” Final Destiny: “to die a living legend.”