I wish I could eat two fat corgis. I’m wearing Wonder Woman underwear the first time a boy touches me. He has a pockmarked neck. He wears khakis. I take a bus to see him, even though I read something about a local bus that flips over every time it comes out of a tunnel, and I know there are more tunnels going this direction than the other direction. The boy owns a book titled AIDS, Inc., which worries me. I know how to watch the street, the neighbor boy from the opposite driveway, who is using a wrench to hang up a tire. I find this funny, that he’s carrying a wrench and hanging his tire with the rope that’s too long. The boy next to me reaches down to brush away my hair from my face and scratches my contact lens instead. I think a lot. A lot about California, and what it means to be that shape. I think about the shape of California, and what aliens would think if they landed here. Someone once told me the aliens would speak Chinese. They would come to save us. They would speak Chinese because most people do.