Princess Diary

Leila wore pegged Guess jeans and had bad skin and unruly, kinky hair.

After school and on weekends, in the gargantuan, lemon-colored Colonial-revival mansion her mother had purchased with some miniscule fraction of the untold billions she and her husband had–it was rumored–plundered from Iran, we listened to Def Leppard and played with Leila’s ridiculously fat and un-neutered yellow lab-golden retriever mix (he tried to fuck everything in sight, but his favorite target was a giant plush banana with googly eyes).

We went to movies together in her mother’s armored Mercedes with at least two bodyguards, one of whom would always drive ahead of us in a Chevrolet Suburban.

I saw Leila’s grave for the first time today.