I bet her name is Lola. After all, she fits the part, all little girl, sweetheart, bow in hair and storybook ringlets, bouncing down the halls on pretty shoes that I would never wear. I bet she places her small hand on your arm when she flirts, eyelashes ablaze and head tilted, inadvertently charming her way into adulthood. I bet her voice is sweet, crackling with forced sexuality as she melds childhood innocence with the politics of growing up, trying to get the best of both worlds and almost succeeding. I bet her wide smile falters when she walks away, as she realizes the impression she has made and, too proud to turn back, continues down the hall feeling tall and yet invisibly small, little girl, sweetheart in search of rebellion. I watch her, and I wonder what her problem is. I bet her name is Lola.