I am graduating. I am wearing a mint green dress. I feel pretty. This is new. Then it is fall, after the cross-country trip, and I am entering high school.
It has to be better.
It is. Not hugely so, but a little, just enough. I am taking an art class and think the teacher is a moron, but I hear there is a good teacher if I can only stick it out this year, a teacher who is phenomenal, even. So I look at my art teacher with his soft, pudgy hands and draw perspective rectangles and put in my time. I draw a piece of driftwood that I like. I wait.