The path leading to the door of my tiny apartment is winding and scattered with crumbling cement, but I have long stopped attaching symbolism to everything I encounter. If the path were straight and red-carpeted, it still wouldn’t make me married.
I let myself in and dump down my stuff. School’s over in two weeks, and I have to get my report cards done pronto. Especially since I’m not sure if I’ll be available tomorrow night.
Leora had a wonderful year in tenth grade, I type slowly, thinking as I write. Her passion and enthusiasm enhanced our class. Her… I search for the word… decorum improved over the year. With her unique strengths, I am confident she will continue to make beautiful progress. I bite my lip. Constructive criticism is… constructive, right? I read it over, trying to decide if there’s enough warm-fuzzy in it for the end of the year.
Zippy had a wonderful year in tenth grade, I go on. She is a meticulous student, and—
My phone buzzes. “Hi, Shaina, it’s Chavi Snow.”
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