“Rachel,” Mrs. Price says. She says it likes 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 smell like cottage cheese, and then the other arms 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.
“Rachel,” Mrs. Price says. She says it likes 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 smell like cottage cheese, and then the other arms 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.
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