Lynch is sitting on the redwood porch of my parents’ house, smoking a cigarette, waiting for the cops to show up. It’s been a long night—the kind of night little sleep was had, but enough sleep, that something happened without knowing it happened. And I can see it in a dream—one that should have been a nightmare, like a Lynch film—the wildness of it, the unexpected violation, just resting my head with other teen girls, having stayed up late, what seemed no more than another sleepover. But, we were not just teen girls, we were fractured—having been places we should not have been, having seen things we should not have seen, having done things just as horrible, either to ourselves, or to one another. The set was dark, the budget low, poor lighting made it hard to make out what was happening. Lynch leaned awkwardly to one side in the director chair, a single eyebrow raised, wondering if he should have cast a skunk rather than a dog to run into the yard, wondering if the scattered cuttings of my hair on the pillow were enough.
