* * * *
The party continues…
“Sweetie, everyone knows JD’s secret. Stop being naïve. Stop being a little girl about reality. And don’t make me slap some sense into you. He isn’t a cowboy from Stockton County, Oklahoma. He’s a football coach and health teacher,” Gigi Fantori holds one of her deviled eggs against my lips, which I don’t want to eat, finding the things disgusting, turning my head away from the egg, hating the mix of egg yolks, crunchy sweet pickles, mayo, a splash of mustard, and pinches of powdered sugar.
“That’s not the secret I’m talking about.” How she slides the half of egg inside my mouth is beyond my understanding, but the kitty cat does. It happens in a gust of motion. So fast. So apt is her action. The taste inside my mouth is repulsive: dry and wet mixed, sweet an
