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July 2, 2011
I'm perched on the risers, blissfully not wearing the striped gymsuit I share with Nancy. It's not the gymsuit I dread, even though it could double as a biology experiment since neither of us has taken it home to wash all year. If pressed to defend ourselves, we could offer that Nancy's too prissy to sweat and I barely exert myself. It's not even the fact that my crotch touches the same cotton as hers that I dread; it's the soul-shriveling "steal the bacon", and for that I'm willing to feign "girl cramps" and run the risk of boy leers.