My elementary school principal is sitting in the hallway wearing a matching purple and white 1970's old lady style blouse & slacks ensemble. She's hurt her ankle and is propping it up on the windowsill. I approach her, feeling very confused about my age. I can only approach her as a seven year old, yet I feel that I am at least in high school. I look down and see that I am holding a big stack of cassette tapes. Most of them are by the band "Bananarama." They are for some project going on down the hall. "Do you want to listen to them?" I ask.
"No," she says, politely eating a salad.
I think about the colors of her clothing. They remind me of the flourescent lights at k-mart.
I walk in the classroom. Sit down with Brittany?
I fall asleep at school. I must be in high school.
When I wake up I am laying out in a field between the junkyard and the handicapped school on the outskirts of Battle Creek (where T. used to live). Someone who is supposed to be z.w. is with me but I can tell it's not really him because this person seems gray and sort of round. "Oh, by the way," they say "do you know how beautiful you are?"
"I don't even know how I got here," I reply.
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