I rose slowly and calmly, turned slowly and calmly, and walked slowly and calmly to the side of the stage, where I removed my burgundy graduation gown, folded it neatly and set it down. Then I turned to the crowd, smiled, bowed, threw my grad cap in the air with a thrust of mock triumph, and let out a long, loud, “Caaaaaaaaw.” Slowly and calmly, I smiled and waved at the crowd as some arsehole in the back hooted and hollered and clapped, and then I walked out the gym doors and straight to the car I’d borrowed from Peggy. I got in. I lit a cigarette. I pushed my Meat Loaf tape into the deck, and I cranked up “Bat Out of Hell.” I rewound and played it over and over again on the drive home, singing along at the top of my lungs, beyond certain that I had to get the fuck out of this place ASAP. And I thanked God, or Kurt Cobain, or whatever other sky-dwelling sadist might be up there, for the one tiny bit of grace afforded to me that night: that Mama was not there to see it. She was off at some thing. An emergency. Somebody needed her more than I did, apparently. Whatever. It ended up being for the best. And the whole humiliating graduation shitshow was the kick in the arse I needed to leave and never come back.

Except, here I am. Back. Face-to-smirking-face with the source of my long-buried shame and humiliation. Quick, what would Stacey Fortune do? Cry, probably. Stacey Fortune is out of her element here.

“Oh well, at least you get to have a little Three Amigos reunion before . . . whatever.” Duke’s voice yanks me back from memories of trauma past and into the freshly traumatic present.

“What?”

“Didn’t you hear? Allie’s old doll died. And Char’s back, too.”

“Is she now?” There will be no reunion with Char and Allie. Those two haven’t been amigos for a long, long time. I can’t even mention one’s name to the other without triggering a tirade.

“Still crazier than a shithouse rat, Char is.” Duke chuckles. “Anyway, tell your loser pal Gimp no smoking drugs in public, okay? I got better things to do than chase potheads in the boonies. And maybe think twice before nude beachin’ it up in the middle of the day. Or at least give the ol’ bush a Brazilian first. I won’t fine you because your tits aren’t too saggy. But this is a warning.”

I stare blankly at him. Copsucker.

“Want a ride home? I’ll let you have shotgun.” A greasy delight oozes across his face.

“No. Thank. You.” I say in a sharp, cold, stabbing tone. By now, I am seeing red. Literally. My wayward brain conjures up a colourful haze that seems to swallow Duke whole. Swaths of deep scarlet mingle with a brownish pinkish purplish mist. Puce. That colour is puce.

“All right. See ya around. If you’re lucky.” He struts back to his car, taking his red and puce cloud with him.