At Nanci Mahoney’s party, the dank cabin smelled of lakewater and cigarettes, and Nanci danced on the screen porch shaking her smoky copper-colored hair. I sat on a futon while a punk boy in combat boots drew a design in body paint on my shoulder. He pushed up my tee-shirt sleeve and held me still. Then he dipped the brush in black paint and began making delicate strokes on my skin. The brush was a wet feather, more exotic than a fingertip. Neither of us uttered a word until he finished; he’d painted an elaborate Anarchy sign on my deltoid, embellished with whorls and scrolls.