Written by Lauren Zheng from Canada “Stop talking, young lady, or you’ll be out in the hall.” That’s my first memory of you, terror of the second-graders. I was sitting on a lint-covered blue carpet with the others. (Except the carpet wasn’t quite blue, and I wasn’t quite with them.) You were watching us make paper stars. (My paper wouldn’t fold the right way, my star deflating and crooked.) I was terrified of you. (I was terrified of being less than them.) But my mom forced
