on a parking meter, or bunch it up into
a little ball and toss it in the alley.
Except when math period ends Mrs.
Price says loud and in front of
everybody, “Now, Rachel, that’s
enough,” because she sees I’ve shoved
the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner
of my desk and it’s hanging all over the
edge like a waterfall, but I don’t care.
“Rachel,” Mrs. Price says. She says it
like she’s getting mad. “You put that
sweater on right now and no more
nonsense.”
“But it’s not –”
“Now!” Mrs. Price says.
This is when I wish I wasn’t eleven,
because all the years inside of me – ten,
nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three,
two, and one – are pushing at the back
of my eyes when I put one arm
through one sleeve of the sweater that
smells like cottage cheese, and then the
other arm through the other and stand
there with my arms apart like if the
sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy
and full of germs that aren’t even mine.
That’s when everything I’ve been
holding in since this morning, since