I grew up with a girl named KC Fuller. We met in fifth grade and became friends when I dated her friend Stephanie. (Dating at that point involving calling each other on the phone nightly and talking about who was or who wasn't queer. The word had a different meaning then.) KC had round red cheeks and a crazy-happy smile and seemed always to be in a particularly good mood. Actually, she was, and remains, one of these people whom I can't remember ever being upset, or angry, or even the least bit off-balance. Calling her "sunny" or "peppy" or "the light in any room" would be accurate - she was one of those very smart and well-liked people about whom everyone wondered: "I wonder what she'll do with her life."

During college, KC and I weren't in touch much but in our mid-20s we found ourselves living about five blocks apart in San Francisco. We got together on her back porch one day in early August, and I asked her what she was doing for a job, because almost no one I knew had any sort of career, it being San Francisco in the early 90s and we being confused about everything.

"I'm teaching!" she said, slapping my knee, which is something she does. "You didn't know I was teaching? I got a teaching credential! I taught last year - junior high. I start again this fall. I didn't tell you?...