For years my sister and I shared a room. We liked rearranging the furniture. Each new configuration felt like a new start. I was around six or seven when our beds were in a line, like cars on a train, and flush against the wall. The wall abutted an identically shaped bedroom on the other side where our neighbors’ twin boys slept. The idea to tunnel, to connect, that I now know many kids have, came thrillingly fresh to us one day. We used thumb tacks. The wall kept crumbling. The holes took the shape of tiny shallow bowls. Eventually we gave up. I don’t remember when, or why.
The New York Times used to publish Counselors Wanted ads on the back pages of its Sunday magazine. The spring my parents separated, two of my male friends and I wrote letters expressing our interest. We were sixteen. We wanted to get away, from the neighborhood, which felt increasingly claustrophobic, from our families, maybe even from each other. We wrote by hand on sheets of looseleaf paper. We addressed envelopes and licked stamps. I remember gathering up the letters. I’ll mail them, I promised, already pretty sure I wouldn’t. I tore them in half as soon as I got home. At the time, it seemed inevitable.
I don't remember what motivated us to volunteer. I'm guessing something to do with school. We felt brave. We felt important. There were three of us. We walked together. We kept close. It was October and already dark at five o'clock. The unfamiliar building that hosted the local Democratic Club was in our neighborhood, but outside our usual territory. We were girls. We were around twelve years old. Inside were men. Fluorescents burned the room white.
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