Here's the opening paragraph:
The teenage boy drove a black Trans Am with an eagle on the hood. He was friends with my babysitter Rita and her friends, and she would invite them over to drink beers and blast David Bowie and T. Rex on my dad’s stereo system. One night the girls raided my parents’ bedroom and dressed me in a wig and a glamorous old gown and painted my face with lipstick and rouge. The teenage boy had long brown hair just like the wig I wore. “Look at us with our lovely locks,” he said, shaking his curls. The girls took Polaroids to show my mom, and the pictures bloomed on the little black squares like oil on rain.