So there I was, a snotty, bratty little girl, not at all pretty, sixteen, in Edith Piaf's 1948 Oscar gown, in Norma Shearer's bedroom, singing "La Vie...en Rose" and twirling around, gesturing with my face and body, as if this was the last song I was going to sing before I faced the Gestapo firing squad, waiting, bored, in the rain-soaked alley behind the theater. In my fantasy, I threw the blindfold they had given me into the gutter, crushed the Gaulois I had been smoking with my high heel into. I did the same with my gyro wrapper and pitched in my trash on top of hers. ‘So, tell me,’ Jo said getting excited. ‘What was it like your first time with Josh? I lost my cherry so long ago, I can’t remember which one of my boyfriends or Uncles had the honor.’ We sat again, and stretched out our short laden legs into the sun. I though for a moment before speaking. ‘Well, I think I was 16. He was older, 18 or 19 maybe. My mom and his mom worked together on some committee and when they had their. More

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