The bandhall buzzed with the early-morning chatter and humming fluorescent lights. The stench of marching band - sweat, dirty socks, bologne sandwiches left too long and summer heat - were finally gone. It was now the "civilized" season of ugly black synthetic dresses and badly fitted tuxes.

We sat together on the floor, where we always did...8, maybe 10, of us who comprised our "clique" - that social structure so essential to the fabric of our beings.

This morning's topic of conversation: a way we could all live together when we grew up.

A giant "wagon wheel" house, segmented up into smaller living quarters for each person's family. There would be common areas in the center, places for us to gather and hang out.

The scheme grew...whose segment would be next to whose, how many there would be, funny house rules for our little commune. Silly, wonderful, fanciful dreams. Uproarous laughter, everyone tripping over each other's words with more ideas...a lovely tangle of thoughts, wet on our lips, pouring out.

And then someone said, "We'll have to have an outside entrance on Belen's house so our kids won't see the string of lovers trapsing in and out." Everyone laughed. I laughed too...what else could I do? I asked what made them say that...

"Because you're either going to be married and divorced 5 times or you'll never be married at all."

I was 17. And more than anything in the world, I wanted to be loved. And *this* was what my closest friends saw for my future. Apparently, this was funny.