The Queen of CooleBook - 2006 | 1st ed.
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I push the door open and start to run. I see almost nothing. A flash of fabric. an ogling face. The sound of shrieks. A cackle. An adult screaming to stop me. But I am still running, past the jocks and the cheerleaders and the math club and the vogue girls and the sun surfers and the extremers and the young politicos. it is me and my feet on the floor and my goal: the doors at the other side of the gym. I make it. I run down the hallway right into the bathroom and dive into a stall. I take the brown bag off my head and let my hair spill out as I lean my head forward. I put my face in my sweaty hands. Instead of laughing or feeling thrilled, I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from crying. What is wrong with me? I feel no difference from that moment of running to this moment of crying, and the next one, the one where I open my garbage bag and calmly put my dress back on.
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