I tell people that when I was born, my mother was on drugs, and so she named me Brett. But what I don’t tell them is that she almost named me Charlotte and wanted to call me Cha-Cha. My almost-name seeps with sugar and sequins, a dancer with a nicotine patch slapped over a half-sleeve tattoo of a big-tittied mermaid with a Fu Manchu. If I were Cha-Cha, I swear to God I’da had all the boys in my sixth-grade class smoking Parliaments with me under the bleachers. Ryan Goldstein woulda never knocked the books out of my hands, and the girls woulda lined up at my locker to get a look at my new Chuck Taylors. My mama woulda wanted to rename me in high school when I started going God-knows- where at two in the morning with Jason Wheeler, knocking back Miller High Lifes and throwing the cans at speeding trains. Cha-Cha is my id, the girl in the purple dress at the funeral. The hot-lipped, fuck-you-very-much fast-talker selling fake IDs out the back of her pop-up camper. In my dreams I’m her, a goddess in ruin, a red- lipstick, denim-jacket pool shark with a taste for whiskey. Who don’t take no shit. Who lets the cares of this world slip through her hands like air, like dust, like something impossible to hold.