Talk to nicely.

I am happy.

I say it into the mirror.

Brows furrowed and mouth pulled into a tight smile.

I am happy.

My fingers clutched the edge of the bathroom sink, and a muscle twitches near my eye.

Something tugs at the corner of my mind. A thought, maybe. It's tempting

me to peek at it, begging me to acknowledge it and push it out into the light of day, but I can't.

I won't. My mother calls me from the kitchen. Are you ready for school? Yes, I call back. I am.

I take another few moments to stare at myself. I burn the image of how happy I am

into my memory just in case I start to forget. It's a big day, after all. The car chokes and

sputters as it makes its way to school. I'm in 10th grade, and I have no idea what I want to do with

my life. But I know that's okay. It's normal. Nobody does.

Except for Maggie Taller and Suki Raj and David Cho and Adam Wallace, they're going to be

doctors and engineers and carpenters and drug dealers. They're going to be happy. We pull into

the school parking lot. The van spits out a plume of smoke the size of Jupiter. Once the pollution

clears, I open the door and look out over a sea of faces.

Some of them are staring back at me.

Some of them are snickering.

One of them is Maggie taller, and she's waving, all red curls and dimples, so I waved

back.

My stomach does a front flip.

...