Day 25: Seventeen

My best friend got a black Mustang convertible for her seventeenth birthday.

“Mustang Sally,” my dad called her from then on. She was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen up close. I wanted to touch her impossibly smooth cheek, twist her curly coffee-colored hair between my fingers. She’d pick me up and we’d go for ice cream, the movies, or the diner; we’d come home stinking of cigarettes even though we’d ride with the top down all the way.

The radio played Skid Row or Sting, and she’d sing off-key, her one endearing imperfection, crooked notes trailing behind us.

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