And Totto, Too

We waited an hour and a half with three bags, leaned up against a car, waiting to get into 9th Avenue and 52nd Street's Totto Ramen, which has a small counter and three tables inside. When our name was only the 27th on the wait list, we cheered. Luckily, that left me with ample time to talk to my cousins. Not so luckily, when we did finally get into the restaurant, I was full before I was halfway through my my bowl. It was piled high with salted kelp, lettuce, avocado, cucumber, peppers, noodles, and the most incredible broth... what it would taste like if trees cried at a wedding. The food came quickly, as did the conversation, as did the questions, as did the inevitable tears of my own.

I'm still getting over it.

High Heels

I bought high heels to wear to the funeral, much to the dismay of my mother, who detailed to me all the disadvantages: "Your hamstrings will get shorter!" "Your feet will hurt!" "Your toes will get jammed!" It didn't sway me, and for my first pair of heels, I wanted to go all out, so I got ones completely covered in mirrors ad rhinestones. (Thank you, DSW!) I embarked on the day with optimism about the footwear, taking care to stretch my hamstrings in the car and rub my feet when no one was looking.

My grandma was the first to show ambivalence. She was also the first one we saw. "I don't know why women have to teeter around on little points," she told my mom. "It is the form of torture in clothing." Only slightly offended, I looked out the window a little more and tried to forget the comment. We sat through the eulogy, bid farewell to the guests, and rode to the cemetery in a limo, but when we arrived at the burial, I discovered a problem: I could not walk up to the grave to put the ritual few shovelfuls of dirt over Janet because my heels sunk into the fresh earth.

I guess my new shoes are going to get dirty, I thought.

Rest

I've never been to a funeral before, nor a burial... I suppose it will be something like a memorial? I've been to one of those, in California, but it wasn't as close to home, in more ways than one. People are still going to talk about memories but it will be more religious, taking place in a synagogue. I've never seen a coffin before, imagine that. Heard my aunt talking about it, and she picked the second simplest one, stained wood but still just a box. We are all supposed to take a shovel of dirt, but the problem is, that's supposed to symbolize letting go.

Black/White

I once took an art class in which we had to grab a piece of black paper and a white pencil and color in/out everything that would not be colored if we were working in gray or silver pencil. The lines we created would be made up of negative space, and they were supposed to form the reality. Unfortunately, my painting came out distorted; I couldn't bring myself to leave the extra alone, because I know how hard it is to miss something you can't get back.

Mandee

I had to go into a store that I have never considered shopping in before, shiny blue tiled and teenager filled, because the lines at Target were about thirty people long and I already had the sparkly high heels. I just needed the black dress. As has come with the custom stereotype of the little black dress, Mandee carried many of these; we picked up three and headed for the dressing room, which had to be unlocked by an executive. Two of the dresses were beautiful. It didn't really matter. I just needed one. I wasn't going to wear it any time I'd care what I looked like.

Dreamland

I woke up from what seemed like reality, because it wasn't good and it wasn't bad. It was all twisted up in such a knot that I got my wish, but it my promises were broken in all the untangling. There was the sweet nectar of the flowers and the bees stinging my mouth before the petals touched my lips. Never have a had such a nuanced - can I call this a dream? More like an experience which i'll put in my drawer, and ponder along with the rest of them.

Orange, Etc.

Some time ago, an important religious leader in the jewish faith famously remarked, "A woman as a rabbi is as out of place as an orange on a seder plate." Beside the shank bone, beside the bitter herbs on our hand-painted plate sits every year an orange. Janet was the most Orthodox in our little family, although even she was reform, so the orange was a deal-or-no-deal thing for us when first introduced. She embraced it. An orange is, after all, Kosher. But yes, a whale feels out of place in a river, but what if the whole river is now above sea level and no longer wet? What is the entire painting dries up and the paint curdles? What is the Seder if it is not the seder I have always lived by? What is an Italian dinner near the hospital? It is acceptance from them, and confusion from me.

None Of It

It os that kind of day. When I wake up on spring's doorstep and no birds are home to greet me, to get me onto my feet and sing to me again, it is that kind of day. When at ten in the morning I show no sign of movement and remain, eyes squinted, in a makeshift bed, it is that kind of day. When all of my clothes, books, and toiletries sit piled onto a chair in the corner of the room, with little regard to their cleanliness and organization, it is that kind of day.

When someone dies, everyone has to walk a long road. They themselves, a road to on. We, the lowly, a road to moving on. The close, a road to acceptance. And I, a road to belief and hope.

Trout

There is a dog named Trout a few feet away from me. In between us are two walls and two doors. If Trout had any idea I was here right now, I would no longer be able to hear my typing fingers for all the barking. According to my cousins, E and R, any place that Trout has been for more than a few minutes with them is her new home, and she protects it from intruders, especially men. She doesn't like her feet to be touched, so her claws grow out a few centimeters from her paws like pencil lead. We are ambivalent about letting her snuggle up on their air mattress. She wants to, though; however protective, once you are friends, Trout is the sweetest dog, like a big reverse black hole, despite her color.

The good news is that when you come into the house, you can hear her coming and make a getaway. She's a lot better than life, but hits you just as hard.

ETA

ETA = estimated time of arrival.
ETA when I left = 3:50.

The train broke down at Brooklyn Bridge, the brakes screeching to a halt; "There is a sick passenger at Fulton Street. This train is out of service." I asked a cop how to get to Fulton Street; cross the street, go down the avenue, and jump onto a downtown train.

ETA when I left the train = 4:05.

I called my mom, and she told me very plainly that I should walk over the bridge. The river is only about five blocks long, so I figured I'd be in Brooklyn and ready to come home in just a few minutes: over the boardwalk, down the street, through the stairwell and across the park.

ETA = 4:15.
ETA = 4:30. I got home. Legs so tired. Keyboard too bright to look at.
Tired of blogging. ETA postponed again.

Playing With Fire

The science experiment was perfectly set, after months of planning, a few scares with lit matches that we lost our grip on, and a small debacle with the gardens we ordered from when it took them five reminders and three weeks to send an order with two-day shipping. The only problem was that no matter how long we let the match burn against the dried grasses, they wouldn't burn. They became charred, and hot, but wouldn't burn. They were too strong, and proud. Like some people, I guess, they can go right up to the edge on a whim but have the wherewithal to stay on the ledge without falling.

What Happened Here

She played bridge with her friends more than once a week, and they all scrambled to be on her team. Did it matter that she was almost 105 and they were all in their eighties? No, it did not. She won yesterday, and went home to enjoy some crackers after her victory. She couldn't spread the jam correctly, and then she couldn't move.

Today, just four days after Elaine's death, Janet's cards sit next to her on the hospital table. She can't reach them, but at least she might be able to one day.

Twist

Twists of fate are so cliché that I don't bother with them, content to let my destiny meander and graze, not wandering too far, at any pace it chooses. I thought that was the way it worked, until today. Sometimes destiny doesn't want to stay walking in the same direction along the meadow. Sometimes it wants to jump off a cliff and break into a million unrepairable, irreversible pieces, like the glass of a tear. Sometimes it wants to shoot itself with its own bullets, use the materials of my life against itself until it lies, inanimate, and too far away to lead me in the right direction. Sometimes it wants to jump in front of a train, and be smooshed into the ground, ground into the soil, soiled beyond cleansing.

Other times, like today, it wants to simply board the train and race off at a million miles an hour towards your destination. Enter X, the initial I'll be using for the person waiting for me on the platform so far away. The one I'll get to faster than I thought.

Each Hour, Until I Breathed

6:00 - I have been up for twenty minutes: brushed my long, knotted hair into its best state of disarray and thrown on a pair of black flare jeans and a black tee with a dog's face on it. Subtle mourning, I call it, because no one could notice that I was wearing all black. It's something you might have worn on a normal Monday, for school, homework, dinner, and class.

7:00 - The printer broke and I am racing to catch the train and speed towards the day ahead, despite my static inertia begging me to stay at home. My nose and throat are crinkly-clogged and my ears are making the sound muffled, like I am underwater, but that is not an excuse for missing what very well might be the day we learn a crucial point, or harsh reality. (Check that off.)

8:00 - The day about to begin, I have arrived early to class to see my friend S, who has been sick for so long some people wondered if she was dead. She wasn't wearing her glasses, so I can't imagine she could even tell what kind of dog face was on my shirt. Maybe she just saw the color black. Hmm... I guess sometimes seeing less can make you understand more.

9:00 - I am frantically searching my backpack for my Social Studies homework, with help from faithful K5. She rustles through piles of papers while I sort the ones she's gone through. A twisted system, but she is more thorough than I, and I cannot bear to face another death today (that of my grade). Finally, I dig it out from under a random plastic bag in the bottom of the compartment. One saved, at least.

10:00 - I have told K5. "Subtle mourning." She knows. She should know after she watched me throw a desk onto the floor on Friday. A silent hug and her shoulder as a blotter and the few tears left to vanquish fade away.

Mourning; morning.

Layers

My mom wants to learn paper cutting, so she bought a book. It has a few projects in it: some place cards for Thanksgiving, a picture frame, a dessert stencil. They are made by layering sheets of paper and cutting away at each a little less than before until each is visible. The individual shapes form vegetables, and flowers, and cars. We decided to make our own pattern for pumpkins... but then I had to go to bed.

Doesn't it remind you a little bit of a family? Of my family, anyway. Each of us has holes, but when we come together, overlapping, fading into one another, different shades of the same world, there's a picture, which we can then hang on the wall.

Charlotte

Apparently, when I was a baby, i looked just like my baby cousin Charlotte. According to one of my grandmothers, that is. She took one look at my scrapbook and exclaimed, "Who is that picture of?" I told her that it was me, back in the depths of 2002, huddled into a carseat and grinning like a snowman. "Really? It looks so much like Charlotte! Doesn't she look like Charlotte?"

My aunt leaned over her lap and inspected the page. It happened to be one of my favorites, featuring four carseat shots, a multicolored ribbon, and paper baby block cut-outs that read "Let's Get Going." The ribbon, from my mother; the pictures, from my father; the work on the page, from me. It blossomed. "Wow," remarked my aunt. "It sure does."

Now, Charlotte and I only share one blood ancestor, my grandfather. It's rather peculiar that we would look alike. Just like peculiarities in the way that even if situations only have one thing in common, you can draw from them and find strength. My current school and my previous school both have teachers. I can deal with them now. The day I got stuck in a subway and the day I thought I lost my parents were both cloudy. Now when the sun isn't out, I take extra precautions to make sure I am okay, which is always good in my family's book. When she died and when my friend's grandfather died. Someone died. Tears. Different tears.

Must Go

No time to blog, must go greet the guests, ringing the doorbell, bringing news that I don't want to hear, but I can't hide from them, they are invading on my home, covering my coats with theirs, leaving no time to blog, no time to stay in the moment, must go greet the weight on their shoulders and except it as necessary exercise, to stay in shape for upcoming marathons to run.

Run-on sentence. Fragment.

Kindle(ing a Flame)

Today at rehearsal, a very good singer and actress named S was just walking into the wing for the top of the number when our music director caught her by surprise from the orchestra pit. "S!" she called. "How is your mom?" What is it with middle-aged women and fatal illness this week? I can count three on my hand, and it's only Thursday. Two can be cured. One can't. My ears perked up.

"I don't know," replied S nonchalantly, subtly pushing her tight crop top up.

The director was amazed. "You don't know?"

"She took my Kindle, so I stopped responding to her emails."

Tears sprung up in my eyes like they were jumping off a trampoline and being rocketed up onto my face. I couldn't believe that in front of me, in the body I so respected, was a  - dun dun dun - stereotypical teenager. She was taking it for granted, all of it, losing track of the consequences in a storm of angst. She had what I didn't. I wanted to be her, and change the mood. I hated her.

"S!" exclaimed the director. "You need to be a better daughter!" She turned to me. "Would you act like that, Chloe?"

I couldn't tell S I hated her, because I didn't. It would be a lie. I couldn't disagree with the director, because I didn't. It would be a lie. "I've been thinking about this a lot, actually," is what I said. I had been. It was not a lie.

Under The Same Name

Googling yourself can be addicting, but annoying, especially if there is someone famous with your name - or, in my case, several famous people: a girl in Canada who had a blood transplant with her fifteen minutes of fame and an actress with blonde hair and way too much lipstick. Look my name up. You'll see. If your name is a Google fail, you can always Google a friend. Top hit for LG: Some photography business. Top hit for JD: A response to a question on WikiAnswers about the Revolutionary War. Top hit for Ms. N: A British historian with a Rachel Maddow haircut. Here is the problem: They think you are a stalker for looking them up, not a bored pre-teen with a new computer who is sick of looking at pictures of Canadian toddlers.

Sometimes when you want to get to know someone, they get suspicious. That's what makes it so hard to make a move and ask someone about themselves. They might not want to let you in. If only everyone could Google in peace, happy that they have someone who cares enough to ask if they have any siblings, their favorite color, or if they are experts on the Revolutionary War.

Microscopic

It's interesting to hear what people say about amoebas when they are magnified 100 times through the oculars of a microscope. Some people call them little people and talk about their lives as frozen, dead cells encased in glass. Some people admire them for their stain color, purple or pink, and ooh and ah over their cytoplasm. Some people equate them to other things: clocks, cars, a weird character named "Cat-Dog" and more. They aren't. They are stuck, and we are the ones who should be living.

Not That

At an assembly today, there was a discussion on the topic of affirmative action, and I... spoke my mind. Later revised my opinion, but at the time, spoke my mind. I thought that in a strictly racial context, putting that much emphasis on race was a form of racism in and of itself, so though it wasn't fair that wealthy Caucasians get an easy ride to good education, it also was wrong to tell children in minorities that they cannot succeed by themselves but others can. (New opinion: Affirmative action should be available for those who want it.) Anyway, I said that, the first to speak, and then two more agreed. The third to respond, however, was an African-American teacher whose first words were not "I agree with Chloe." I was hoping she would be able to discuss both sides, but.... As soon as she got the microphone, she stared straight at me.

"I think this conversation is hypocritical." Glaring at me, at me alone. "It's cute." My opinions were valid, and I was not a toddler, and why was she doing this to me? "What people aren't mentioning is that so many of our students get into college because Daddy knows someone." My father supported teachers in court, so who was she to accuse him? "They're not taking something away from you." I didn't say they were. "I think you just want somebody to blame." The next comic in the presentation flashed onto the screen, a snobby white kid who hadn't been accepted to a school yelling at the minority member in the school instead of the others, labeled things like "daughter of alum" and "wealthy donor." "That's all I wanted to say!" Good for you, but I'm not racist.

The Road Trip

Music holds a certain power over me when played at breakneck volume on the stereo of a car rolling at breakneck speeds down a highway. It started with Owl City's "Fireflies" so many years ago, on the way to north Carolina through the sunset-lit mountains, and that drive made me fall in love with the song. It's happened again, with B.o.B's "Both of Us" featuring Taylor Swift. The refrain is, "I wish I was strong enough to lift not one but both of us." Something in Taylor's mournful, dulcet voice struck me, and I began to cry right there in the backseat, old memories spilling out onto my shirt in the form of tears. So many dark forces have tried to invade my life that I've made myself forget most of them, but the music brought them bubbling to the top of me, fizzing back down, and rising, wobbling again and again. There are images and places I've tried to shove down into "oh, you know" and "some stuff happened." My deepest. I find exhilaration to be the perfect cure for humdrum, in either direction on the happy/sad spectrum. Breakneck volume, breakneck speed, and breakneck weight fell upon me, like low C chords sounding from a distant piano.

The Candy Wrapper

I think almost every aspiring actor has imagined, at least once, that magical feeling of stepping out onto a wide, glossy stage, being handed a gold man by your favorite star, and saying into a microphone in tears, "I'd like to thank the Academy." That dream came true - kind of - yesterday, at the 2013 Spring Red Carpet Dance, bedecked in curled eyelashes that I'd created by borrowing/stealing the strangest little mechanism, and a spritz of my friend A's perfume that stung my eyes when it caught me by surprise; I'd never used it before. I donned a floor-length red ballgown exactly the color of a red rose and a semi-precious stone necklace from my grandmother. As I walked in down the wipe-your-shoes mat that had been moved downstairs due to its maroon color (it had become a red carpet), the folds of the dress swished at my feet. My toes screamed for air in the size five shoes I had borrowed from K, me being a size eight and a half, but that hardly mattered.

After about an hour of gallivanting around with my friends in a too loud gymnasium, the contest began for costume/outfit. There were a bunch of categories: most daring, best tux, best hair and makeup, best Old Hollywood, and the coveted best dressed. There was, however, a catch: Once you won a contest, you were out of the running for the others. For me, it was between best gown and best dressed, but I decided to go for best gown because I was the only girl in floor-length. When the category was called, third to last, I stood up proudly and walked across the front of the room first, about fifteen behind me. First was second place; it went to a girl in a short, turquoise, flowered dress - P. Hmm... I worried. Maybe any dress counts as a gown... and my dress sure isn't the best... "And the Oscar goes to," said Ms. M, the grade advisor. Suddenly, I noticed her finger. It was pointed at me. K2 shrieked and literally jumped up and hugged me. K3, a member of the "Academy," handed me a cardboard Oscar (held up with candy wrappers), a bag of sour jellybeans, two chocolates, and a five dollar gift card to Dunkin' Donuts (which I gave to my friend, J4). As we all walked back into the crowd, someone told me to make a speech. I stepped out onto the wide, glossy stage. I already had by gold-painted man. There was no microphone, but at the top of my lungs, I shouted, "YAY!"

Goodbye

There's a picture of Elaine and I with our heads together in the backseat of the car, sleeping. I was three-ish; she was "I won't tell you but I've been around a good while"-ish, also known as around seventy. My bangs fall gently over my eyes. Her hand is over mine. We sleep.

Goodnight, Elaine. Sleep tight. I'll miss you.

Late Night

In Spanish, we have to write a rap song about our daily routine and perform it. For me, that means screeching on about taking the subway and carrying my backpack in front of a room of rowdy eighth graders. Needless to say, the project gives the bad kind of shivers, like spiders and cobwebs falling over you in bursts. I don't feel the need to be creative, or swagalicious. I just feel the need to say a few words and sit down. It is a question not of what the rap will be but how soon it will over.

I am SO far from anything hip and swag and sick and illin' and whatever. I am more like artsy, dramatic, emo, and anything that else that comes to mind when you think of a ballad-singer. This is going to be a stretch to start with, so making me reveal my actual daily routine... that's just going too far. But I'm not good at lying either, so maybe I should just mumble, but I would get a bad grade, and i would die, and lots of other horrible stuff. Whatever. I'll just say, "Me despierto por la mañana como P Diddy," and be good to go.

Eavesdropper

So are you saying that a tubeworm is as significant to the economy as Barack Obama?
-Yeah, I guess so.

When you fry someone named J4, the juice will flow out of them.
-Om nom.

Eavesdropping can get you some interesting information, a laugh, even insight into someone's soul, but aside from the fact that it is wrong, it can also get you scarred for life. There's a tempt, like a string pulling us towards those keyholes of locked doors and heating vents into our neighbors' apartment. On the other side of that door, you never know what you are going to find. Maybe you'll hear that secret you've been aching to hear, but maybe there's a murderer just a few feet away, stabbing your friend to death. Maybe, maybe, maybe you'll hear someone opening their mouth and spitting out sadness. It's a toss up, like gambling, and neither ends well.

Deepest

Deepest darkest secrets are not to be thrown around like footballs in the schoolyard, nor tossed behind a head like paper airplanes in class. They are not to be given away, even in rooms with doors locked, like cards, even to someone close to you. The only proper way to reveal a deepest darkest secret is in the middle of everything, so no one's eyes are on you but the recipient. If that works, then a weight lifts off halfway off your chest and begins to rest on four shoulders instead of two.

You know who you are; thank you. If it's not you, you still know who you are. You've heard one. Hold it close, and listen to it whisper.

Someone Like You

There is a trend occurring. It's happened at both auditions I attended last week. It's daring, exciting, and very, very risky for an auditioner, but more than anything it is surprising they would do it in the first place. Here it is: Guys have been singing Adele without changing gender-specific words. Frankly, I'm proud. Tolerance and acceptance are growing, I can feel it, and they are taking advantage of the opportunity. That doesn't keep from cringing when they begin the song, though. It's a song built for a female range, and you can transpose it all you want but you just can't get the same tone quality. Did they do it for bonus points because of standing out? It's likely, and I sincerely hope it pays off for them.

Then again, that is in strict counter-balance with the camp my parents and I met the director of last night. They have a Sadie Hawkins *activity* in which, for a few minutes, BOYS put socks in their back pocket and the GIRLS have to chase them and try to grab a sock. Then the two have to "get married" at a "wedding booth." Cough. Cough. And the director didn't even realize that this was unusual. As my mom said, it was old-fashioned when she was my age, in the early 70s. We asked what gay kids would do, just to stump him. Stump him we did. He told us that they didn't have to participate. Oh come on, really? You've never thought about how awkward this is before? No? Well then, I guess it's good we have both white and black, and good and bad, and Adele and socks in the world.

Scrapbooking

Since the summer, I have gotten into scrapbooking. I filled 50 pages in a tear-out sketchbook, and when they started to fall like leaves, I treated myself to a real scrapbooking album and some 12 by 12 paper. The theme of the new book? Coming of age. Everything from September 2012 to June 2018. I have filled five pages. One shows me and my dad, one shows the entire class, two show me and my friends, and one just shows me. I realized late last night, as I slid the "Rainbow Pancakes" page into place, that the pages and not only slides in an album; they represent the different sides of me. I haven't been mapping out my life at all. I have been mapping out myself.

Me and my dad. I have always been family-oriented. How could I not be, with 13 cousins, 15 aunts and uncles, 4 grandmothers, and no siblings to scare me away? But recently, the touch between our fingers seems cold and dated, like something that hasn't moved in a while. That doesn't mean that we don't email, though; in fact, in the past 48 hours I've gotten about 15 emails from different sides of the family. Moving, yes. Lifelike, no.

The entire class. I still feel a little like the new kid. I don't have a new best-friend-at-my-new-school, a place to sit each day in English class. To say that the whole class likes me would be going too far, I think. I'm not a floater. I don't drift like an abandoned boat from harbor to harbor. Or do I? Now that I think of it, where do I sit in English? It varies. I certainly have felt abandoned for a few years, ever since... Never mind, that's for a later blog.

Me and my friends. With friends, there's always a kind of comfort, the kind where you can burp at the top of your lungs or spill a soda on yourself and you all laugh together. However, with new friends, there's also a line in the sand; you can laugh at the soda-spiller, but not always with them. That hasn't changed my mind. I've heard so many stories about people at my school forming forever-friendships, and I see the potential for that. Still, right now, this one might be a bit of stretch. Or maybe I'm making that up. I've never had so many friends before.

Just me. I like to be alone and scrapbook and watch Project Runway and read about whatever recent crisis is abuzz online. I like to be with my friends and sing and act and laugh. I like to be with family and play games and talk and eat. I like to be with the entire class and learn and write and bond. Those all feed into my soul, so that I carry them into my alone time. I am, by definition, more than one person. They all have the same name.

A Tiled Floor

Usually when I write a song, my parents are the first to hear it. They are around, and they have good ears, and I know they will support me. Most of my songs discuss general issues, or some experience they already knew about. I have rarely written one that expresses personal feelings about a specific situation. But when I do, I get scared. So when I screamed, "Don't read my notebook!" last night and my dad immediately starting guessing topics, I was more worried than ever. I begged and pleaded with him to not even take a peek; he said he wouldn't but his guesses and teasing were relentless. I think my parents like the idea of me feeling awkward as I grow up. I love them dearly, and they often know exactly what to do.... In fact, I can't even say what I'd've preferred.

Parents are like water overflowing from a bathtub, and I'm the floor. Water tries to seep into every crack and nook and cranny and crevice, and it's hard to get it out once it's in. Over time, the grout between bathroom tiles can wear down. Then, you've got two problems. It's not that the water don't clean the dirt off the floor, it's just that it has trouble leaving some of it dry.

Close, But No Cigar

A room full of extroverted eight-graders chatters away over the teacher's warnings; they know that she is well out of her element. Teachers should not want to be cool, because they won't be able to reprimand the kids without being embarrassed. That's not to say that they should be strict and weird, but everything is a balance. The kids in this room outweigh her. Until, that is, she says, "Okay, you blew it. And you know who you are. We aren't going to the show." (They had been supposed to go to the Jewish Cultural Show on Wednesday, a welcome break from school itself.)

Among the sea of crazy adolescents are two seventh-graders, one lying docile and one screaming for attention - both completely out of their element, just like the teacher. C and me are two different people who are expected to be the same. When he arrives late to class, the eights ask me where he is. They tell me that we would be perfect for each other simply because we are both sevens - um, no. (C, if you are reading this, don't even think for a second that I suggested that. It was all A.) We are forced into the same mold by those who so recently were in our shoes, but that doesn't mean we don't take our own paths. He is loud and provocative. I am quirky and shy. Still, in this moment, I want to right his wrong and get both of us to the show, because we have to support each other. Even though we are distinct human beings, we share a label that we have to overcome.

So I raise my hand. "No, Chloe," said the teacher. "You can't apologize for the class again."