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by Mame McCutchin I was fifteen and I was bored. My family lived in the Boston suburb of Concord and I hated it. So I spent my time anywhere else, mostly Cambridge, hanging around Harvard Square with the skinheads because I thought that was a cool thing to do. I met a guy there and after making out in a garage for about three minutes, we started calling each other girlfriend and boyfriend. It wasn't until almost a week later that I found out his name was JC. He was about nineteen, I think, with short, thin, dark, curly hair and a face that was always in a sneer. His mother was French, his dad was a divorced and remarried American. JC was an alcoholic, something he shared with his mother. I guess he'd been a problem child and his stepmother insisted he leave the house, so his dad put him up in an apartment in Newton Corner. He had his own room and his rent was paid. JC was not what anyone would call handsome, and it's still a mystery to me that I ever figured him for cute. But we spent a few afternoons together smoking cigarettes, being cynical and trying to get people to buy booze for him. And then we decided to move to Los Angeles. I liked to think of it as moving even though I was really running away. I wasn't happy at home or at school and I figured that nobody would miss me anyway. 
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