On the first day of fourth grade, I picked up the new-girl-next-door. Joanne was still in bed, so her mom invited me to wait at their kitchen table. Joanne eventually shuffled in, eyes puffed and brown hair tangled, still in pajamas.
Her mom served fried eggs with ketchup. I felt nauseous watching the vivid-yellow yolks flow into a pinkish-orange pool on Joanne’s plate. Joanne then farted long and loud while eating—an unacceptable act at my house—and her exuberant mom announced: “Machine guns going off!”
We were late to school.
The next day, I walked alone. Delighted to be early, I romped on the playground until the bell rang.
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