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"Sorry about that," I said, feeling strangely unsorry. He reached into his shirt pocket with james legros his dirty fingers with the nails bit to the james legros quick and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. "Jesus!" he said, taking a cigarette from the pack with his teeth and putting the pack back in his pocket. "I don't know if I want to fucking kill you or do it again," he mumbled with the unlit butt dangling from his mouth. I hate to admit this because james legros it's both so true and so trite, but he had a total James Dean thing going for him. Even though I'd promised myself since enduring my devastating little-girl crush on Michael Lahey who everyone knew didn't have a mother and his father drank; Michael Lahey, the king of the brooding boys who wore nothing but jeans and a jeans jacket all year round and he wouldn't even change for gym; Michael Lahey who could hit a baseball over the fence every time and wrote this poem in English class that made me cry--I'd promised myself that never again would I get stuck on a boy like Michael Lahey who I thought needed me but in the end needed me to need him more.
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