Dear Bianca,

Dear Bianca,

Tap, tap, tap, tap goes the sound of my new cranberry ballet flats on the grimy floor of the hallway.  I stand there, waiting for you to come out of your art class so that we can walk up the crowded breezeway staircase to English class.  God forbid that I should leave without you, for if I do I will be castigated when you arrive and receive an infinite number of condescending glares throughout the period.  Finally you come out of the art room.  First you make some sarcastic comment, excoriating either my choice of wearing a "summer scarf" or possibly my matching abilities, and then you let me know how malcontent you are with your life.  Then you trip over a stair or get hit by a door, proving yourself to be maladroit once again.  I laugh, not because I am deriding you or getting enjoyment out of your clumsiness, but because I can sympathize.  After successfully arriving to the English room after the treacherous journey up the crowded staircase, we sit down.  We exchange amusing stories from throughout the day, and compete to determine who is the hungriest.  Then Mrs. Abrams walks in, I hear the daily "Ohh yeahh!!" from the hallway, and the class begins.