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Lettie

Lettie plays it until Tonya unplugs her speakers. She burns it onto a CD, just that track, and sticks it in her Discman; she can listen to it two and a half times on the way to class, and again between there and the cafeteria. She puts it under her pillow and listens until she’s too tired to hit repeat.

Tonya slumps down in her seat when she realizes Lettie’s got her headphones on at the movies, right up until the feature. “It’s not even that good a song!” she hisses.

Lettie agrees. Stupid beat. Stupid minor chords. Stupid desperate euphoria.

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