"riiiiiick," lucy called to her brother, "rick this is my friend soviet." now my real name is sylvia which i love for sharing with the great, dead-of-her-own-design, ms plath. i changed my name to soviet however, after spying a tattered copy of "the communist manifesto" in the back pocket of mark karlson's skinny maroon corduroys: mark karlson the senior i've harbored a mute, painful crush on for the last two and a half years: delicious, disheveled, angsty, distracted, mark. my perfect mate.

last year i stole mark's worn out army jacket from his locker while he was in chem lab. i slept wrapped in it every night until i developed a bothersome rash on my neck which had to be treated with zinc cream. after that i relegated the jacket to a hanger which hung from a peg on the wall opposite my bed. i'd lie in bed rubbing the cream on my neck, staring at the empty jacket, picturing mark inside it, calling me his girl.

rick didn't so much look up from his game as tilt his head an inch in our direction. a grunted "hey" escaped from a mouth that i am certain never opened. lucy nudged me. i overcame my confusion and took two steps closer to rick. i asked him what he was playing. it took a complete 45 seconds before rick answered me. the silence was horribly uncomfortable. i looked to lucy for support only to find her gone.