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His hair’s buzzed tight, and you can see it’s thinning at the temples, even though, in the video, he was only twenty-five-almost as old as I was when I knew him as a fourteen-year-old. Then there’s Ricky, standing on the front lawn of a house, taller than he was when I knew him, and filled out but still remarkably skinny, his slimness magnified by the hang of his baggy jeans. Above her shoulder, a graphic hovers: a fist smashing apart the symbols for male and female, and a simple, stark, blue-lettered word.
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The video, a clip from a local TV newscast, starts with a solemn anchorwoman at a desk. The shade of his mixed-race skin, like something just this side of burned, was more vivid than I’d let myself remember. But when I added the name of the state where he grew up, I was rewarded promptly with a decade-old YouTube thumbnail that showed part of a face-only a nose and mouth-that I sensed right away must be his. His real name, when I searched, got half a million hits I braced myself for a long wild-Google chase. I’ll call him Ricky, which sounds almost right: boyish, a little innocent, a little insolent.
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Then one day, at my writing desk, inventing another teenage boy-my stories are overpopulated with them-I was hit by a truth I must have worked to keep at bay: by now he’d be findable on the web.
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Over the next fifteen years, I liked to tell myself I’d made meaning out of his life: planted the scanty seed of him and grown a magic beanstalk of what if? But I could never stop wondering about the actual him. Whenever someone asked me if the book was based on a boy I knew, I hedged: “Nah, I mostly made him up.” Gallantly protecting him, I wanted to believe, but more truly protecting myself from old, dismaying questions. Why did it take me so long to think of tracking him down? In 2002, I’d published a novel that starred a boy inspired by him, and once I’d forged my fictional kid, I tried hard to smother thoughts of the real one.