My first day of kindergarten, my mother dropped me off. There was a mirror in the classroom. I looked in the mirror and cried.

In first grade, Mark and Amy were the class darlings. I hated them. I stole chalk from the art room and wrote "Mark + Amy" on a brick wall. Mrs. Shepherd the principal knew I did it and gave me a stern lecture. I do not know if she ever called my parents about the incident.

In second grade, I had Mrs. Dixon, who also belonged to our pool.

In third grade, I learned how to write cursive, which I called script. I collected stickers, which I kept in a photo album and traded with the girls in the class. Once I tried to play soccer with the boys; they named me "Powerhouse Junior," but not because I did anything spectacular. They had all given themselves nicknames and were trying to be nice. I forget who Powerhouse Senior was, but it sounds like someone I would have had a crush on.

In fourth grade, I almost failed math and they wanted to put me in a class with dumber kids. There is a part of my brain that can do any sort of math perfectly well, but there is a larger part of my brain that has suppressed the first part for over twenty years.

In fifth grade, Mr. Nordfjord took me aside on the playground and told me that I was pathetic and that all of my classmates hated me. He told me to check a book called What Every Kid Should Know out of the library, which I did. All I remember is a chapter about opening a bank account.

In sixth grade, my best friend was Billy, who has likely progressed to a career in female impersonation. My teacher, Miss Sonnenberg, moonlighted in a seafood restaurant called The Chesapeake and read out loud from The Outsiders. I read 1984 on my own, a book I have read at least twenty times and seems to have established its content approximately twenty years too soon. I am probably older now than Miss Sonnenberg ever was.