In 1986 I was the Horse Girl of St. Margaret’s, the tallest girl in sixth grade, with dark-brown hair I tossed like a mane. I’d once had friends — smaller, meaner girls like Cecilia and Bridget and Diane — but all they wanted to do now was ogle boys and decide what terrible trick they should play on Agnes. I didn’t want to shoot spitballs or stick out a foot to trip someone who walked between the desks to the board. I didn’t care that Agnes was gross, with her boyish haircut and thick body. I also didn’t care that Jason was the best-looking boy in our grade, or that our young gym teacher, Mr. F., was getting divorced. I ran fast in my off-brand shoes, circling the parking lot while the other girls clustered in groups beneath the trees or converged on Agnes, who stood blinking in the sun.