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Show Inside Out, 3 Certainly I wasn't going to tell him. He had been almost three when Mom died; though he sometimes protested to the contrary when I really pressed him, I knew he hardly remembered Mom at all and, at least at this point, had no hole in his life since she was gone. All day I thought about Mom. Even in English, despite the heavenly cologne wafting from the delicious-looking neck in front of me (which belonged to Denver Bingham, the best thing about Granite High School). Last period was art, and when Mr. Colton assigned a pencil sketch I chose a picture of a mother and her daughter from his folder of photographs. I was so into the picture that I didn't hear the bell. Mr. Colton must have thought he was doing me a favor by letting me keep drawing after the bell, so when I finally realized what time it was I had missed the school bus and had to take the city bus home. I sat down across from a mother and her teenage daughter a few rows up. The girl was pierced in every possible inch of visible skin and had that fake "look at me I'm so gothic" purple-black hair. Just like Sophie, my sister who was off somewhere on the road with Jameson, the boy-wonder who couldn't keep a job. Just like every other "original" teenager in the world. They screamed for attention in their trench coats and nose-rings and then asked you what you were staring at when you looked at them. The girl's mother had a big, newscaster hairdo that probably required a can of hairspray per day. The two didn't smile at each other. I tried to imagine all of the reasons they would be taking the bus together. Salt Lake City wasn't like New York or other places where everyone takes the bus. In Salt Lake, there are the business people and |