![]() ![]() And then I read The Catcher in the Rye and lost my shit for Holden Caulfield. ![]() I read Stephen King’s It over several weeks and then walked around the neighborhood looking for the opening to the sewers under Miami Beach. I finished Dracula during three days we were without power because somebody didn’t pay the FPL bill, used a flashlight to light its pages under my covers. So I read The Virgin Suicides over one weekend. The librarians at the Miami Beach Public Library never, ever, recommended books about black and brown people, about queer girls from the projects, about people like me. For months, I’d spent every night lost in a book, read whatever the librarian put in my hands, which usually meant books written by white men, about white people, for white people. That winter, the year Boogie turned 14, we got it in our heads that we could run away, leave Miami Beach and never come back. ![]()
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