Micaela did not have hair on her head like the rest of us, she had tresses, slippery and heavy and black. I brushed them, roped them in my hands, weaved braids and coils and watched them spring out into their natural form with the removal of a tie or pin. But those same pores that grew these miraculous locks were oily and angry on her face, and while I brushed she squeezed and prodded her cheeks until her skin looked like salami.

We were fitted with white shirts and tartan skirts, and in town when we were allowed out for pizza or a movie, the local boys called us "cunt flaps" because of the way our skirts were pleated.