Fuck you. Thank you. – Hilary Matthews.

Fuck you. Fuck you for looking at me in my blue school uniform shorts and my too tight ponytail and thinking “There’s something fucking wrong with her”.

I was walking with my best friend, the Arkansan tomboy, on our school oval. Each conversational twist marked with “I have a theory “ followed by a profound observation about life . She was a little older than me and she knew what it was to be grown up. I was desperate to know everything but she doled out her knowledge in slow agonising drips.  I was in awe of her and being in her presence felt like being in the sun for the first time.

You were a year above me. You were with a friend and I hoped you’d ignore us and head over the low school fence.

“Look at the lezzos.” you said to us catching my eye “Are you a boy or a girl?” you said to my friend between laughs. I was outraged because you were in my sports faction. So much for fucking solidarity.

For years afterward whenever I would walk past your house I would wonder what happened in there to make you cruel.  I would speculate about just how big of a loser you grew up to be.

Thank you. Thank you for telling me my weirdness was wafting out of my pores. Thank you for giving me my clue on how to describe it.