foxfire never says sorry

Because I was in a middle school gymnasium tonight, I was thinking about my own middle school experience, which was difficult since technically I never went to middle school. I went to Catholic School and, as all good little Catholic students know, we are talking about a K-8th experience. No tidy siphoning off of the hormone-riddled socially-perplexed undergoing-the-most-dramatic-transformation-of-their-lives-since-birth adolescents here. No, we all went down together.

Catholic school, because really it is the cheapest private school. Catholic school because children always pay for the sins of their parents. Catholic school because there are very few rules or even standards that have to be met.

Let's just say, I knew my classmates well. I sat with the same group of students for 8 years. I had a crush on the same boy for 6 of those years, and his best friend felt the same way towards me. Jere Deranja, the boy I loved is dead now. I don't know what became of Michael Cazian, but I do know that for every day he put a wilted flower and a cut-out card penciled with, "Will you go with me?" inside of my desk, a little piece of me grew harder when I had to turn him down.

7th grade. Kind of an exciting year. There was a new student, Denise Portillo. She was petite, had amazing feathered hair, rolled her skirt high and, most importantly, decided to be my friend. Denise, I could tell, was wise beyond her years and having just come in from public school, had a lot to offer. She was constantly trying to get me to set my sights a little higher: "What about the 8th grade boys?" "What about that one?" "He's way cuter than Jere!"

Together we fell in love with Prince. We watched Purple Rain a million times. We lied on the floor of her room, dizzy with all the sexy imagery we were just beginning to unravel, and stared up at the ceiling. I had never been so happy. She was in love with a boy in high school named Wayne. And we sang, "Purple Wayne, Purple Wayne" until we both swooned.

I loved everything about her. Her skinny and smooth legs. The "o"'s in her last name. The way she could always get a hall pass to the bathroom. Even though our friendship only lasted a few months, it was something to even be singled out.

She taught me how to roll my socks, how to sign my name with a flourish, and the significance of doing something just because it felt good to do it.

Denise Portillo was a stone cold fox and I am sure that she remains one to this day.