Her named was Wendy and I almost kissed her a few times. She was a foot shorter than me with dirty blond hair and dirty blonde ways. She never looked innocent even in her faded purple Eeyore hoodie that swallowed her shape and the skimpy tops that put her breast anywhere your eyes looked. Her lapse of common sense still makes me want to kiss her neck. Once in art class she asked a girl, “Why did you paint the hands black?” I grabbed her with my legs and arms then whispered to her it was the same reason the girl signed it Keisha Jones. My lips touched her ear lobe with ever syllable. I should have kissed her neck.