His name was Ron, and he was a mean mouthy jerk until I got to know him my junior year. And I realized that underneath all that bravado was a scared twenty year old who was never going to walk again, let alone drive the car that was as totaled as he was. When he asked me one day if I’d sew him a Hawaiian shirt out of the wildly colored hibiscus rayon he’d had his mother get for him, I said I would. He was emphatic, though, that the falseness of his tough exterior should remain our little secret.
I don’t want any whole flowers on it!