At the time, I had been reading the Diary of Anne Frank for school. Between that and watching reruns of Hogan's Heroes, somehow my brain set me as a prisoner in a Nazi camp. I returned to these pages so many times that my simple red journal falls open to the page when I open it. I continued the dream with the guard in the fantasy falling in love with me, sneaking me out, and raising a family with me. Then abruptly my journal entry switches to addressing God. I beg his forgiveness for my sinful thoughts.Lord, why do you torture me—I ask in the lord’s prayer ‘and deliver us not into temptation, deliver us from evil’ it says plainly. Why do I enjoy these dreams?In my little red journal I wrote a lot about sex, a lot about God, and very little about my real life. Real relationships seemed impossible.Everyone knew me as the prim and proper girl who liked learning. Even among the nerd boys, I seemed an off limits alien. At one point, I shared chemistry class with five of them from my core. Ingrid had the reflexes of a leopard and the grip of a trapeze artist. He was lucky that his right arm was still attached.My fingers still ached from giving her a congratulatory handshake at lunch.She held him no ill will. In fact, she was worried she'd hurt him, but I was able to reassure her on that point. Given her attitude I was formulating a vague plan in the back of my mind. As we'd chatted at lunch she'd agreed to be available after school when we'd be dealing with the malefactor.As a result, I was tingling in anticipation when I gaveled the meeting to order for the next item on the agenda."What're we gonna do with the twerp?" committee secretary (and buster of my cherry years ago) Mike Collins asked from his place beside me at the conference table."Just for a start, he should walk the halls naked for the rest of the year." That was from Retta Jones.I wasn't sure I wanted to know what came after the "just for a start." As far as she was concerned, anyone who looked cross-eyed.
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