Logan's House, Part 1

Back in high school, Hisa was this half-Japanese girl that everyone and their brother—mine included—had a crush on. She was petite and had a face like something out of an anime: big eyes, small nose, mischevious smile. Hisa was looked Asian enough to be exotic, but American enough for we guys who were raised by xenophobic suburbanites to feel comfortable bringing home to mom.

Not that we were ever going to get a chance to bring her home to mom, but maybe that was the point.

One night, we were all over at this older kid’s house. There’s always an older kid, right? This one, Logan, had long hair, a goatee, and a face that was caved in on one side, though we never asked him why. He was thin and into ren faires and dressed like a pirate whenever he had the chance. Years later, when I heard, on some social network or other, that he’d died, I actually cried. I didn’t know him all that well, but I slept on his couch a few nights and there was this one time we took turns pushing each other on the rope swing that hung from a tree out back of his house, pretending that a girl hadn’t just broke our hearts and that we were little boys again. That meant a lot, to both of us I think, and—

Anyway, one night, Hisa and I and this other girl, Ashley, were in Logan’s basement.

To be continued…

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