Picasso's Butterfly

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drowned into disrepair. Slipping into the girls‟ dressing room, I stood underneath the hand dryers until I was only slightly moist. Checking in with the Boss, I saw myself into the scene shop and took my paint can out of the cabinet. With the rest of my supplies scattered about the shop, it took a while before I was ready to resume work on the displaying walls of the set. “You‟re Madeleine Ketsy, aren‟t you?” I hadn‟t realized anyone else had been in the wings. Behind me, standing over a messy pile of recycled lumber, was a boy of approximately my age with a bronze tan and bony figure. His bright hazel eyes, a feature that blended harmoniously with his dark hair and growing patch of stubble, gazed at me curiously. I eyed him carefully. “Kinsey,” I said. “And, yes, I am.” “You went out with Joel Karras, didn‟t you?” I almost dropped the paintbrush. “Yes, I did. Why do you ask?” I was more perturbed than surprised by the line of questioning, especially considering that the news of my failed relationship with Joel was all but written on the bathroom walls. The boy shrugged his shoulders. “No real reason. Joel and I had a class together last year and he kept telling everyone how great you were, how you were the best girlfriend he ever had, and stuff like that.” A knot formed in my stomach. “And besides, everyone saw you two at prom. You guys really –” I refused to stick around to listen to his blather.


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