I had the stereotypical prefect life. You know- head cheerleader, the adoration of the entire school body, jaw dropping clothes, perfect body, a different jock on my arm every week, parents that would let me get away with murder. The whole nine yards. For a little while, I even thought I was in love with the quarterback.

Everything changed when I met Polly.

Nobody ever knew much about her. She was one of those punk/emo/goth kids. We never knew how to classify her. Most just called her weird, and left it at that. At about 5 foot three, with a typical 'emo boy' haircut (shaggy, extreme side part, dyed black and hair always over one eye) and baggy, dark clothes, she was an interesting thing to look at. I remember my on again off again best friend Jessica calling her a dyke, and I laughed.

Polly the Pyro, some called her. She always had a Bic lighter in her back pocket, and a Zippo in her checkered Vans purse. Every single fire scare we had that year was a result of her. For a day, she was the sullen hero, and then she faded back into obscurity until next time. Maybe she liked it like that. Who knows.

Her pants were always low slung, and sometimes you could see the cigarette burns decorating her hips. Later I found out that they spelled 'beauty' and 'love', respectivly.

But I'm getting ahead of myself…

My first actual interaction with Polly was three days after the latest fire scare. She broke her Bic in the wastebasket in the upstairs girls room, and tossed a lit match in. needless to say, the resulting fire was the most extreme we've had. That bathroom needs renovations.

But that's all beside the point. The one thing you really need to know is that Polly saved me in more than a few ways.

Settle in- I'll tell you our story.