Red's Wrap

Typing class

High school was a vast sea of uncomfortableness. Every day a variation on that theme. Always a part of me off, the limits of my wardrobe a burden I felt every ten days as I waited to wear the teal skirt and sweater set that was my best outfit. I ironed my blouse in the kitchen, the cord of the iron laying across the cold burners of the stove, the rest of the house dark, my mother still sleeping, my father gone to work hours earlier. I would toast an English muffin, butter it with oleo and sit at the slim counter facing the wallpapered wall. It was like dining in a phone booth with the accordion door shut. Airless and soundless.

The high school was huge, located in a Detroit suburb growing so fast that, for a while, students attended in two shifts. And then the school expanded and everyone attended…

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