Saturday, November 7th, 1987 Def Leppard’s Hysteria is breaking the airwaves. Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again is breaking MTV. And my girlfriend and I are breaking the Catholic Church’s cardinal rule of no sex before marriage. I’m fourteen. She’s thirteen. Her name is Stephanie Allen. She’s pretty with long, wavy blonde hair, piercing green eyes, and a million and one emotional scars. We’re at her place: a two-car garage turned into a tiny, two-bedroom hovel in the part of town where couches are on porches and residents are on parole. She lives with her mom and fifteen-year-old sister, neither of whom are home. Her mom probably out drinking and drugging. Her sister probably out breaking and entering. The room we’re in is a cramped space she shares with her sister. Girl clutter everywhere and a stolen license plate that says CUDDLES , swiped off a car by her mom’s boyfriend during a blackout bender. The room is barely bigger than a coffin, so the girls sleep in a bunk bed....
Monroe Street
I thought coming of age meant growing up. On Monroe Street, it meant giving something away before I knew it was mine.