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want to talk to God, all you have to do is put your hands together and pray.”
    Beat.
    â€œSeeing as he’s everywhere and all.” Then, to herself more than me, “Bunch of hypocrites. Sitting around judging all the time.”
    Beat.
    â€œNever judge a man till you walk a mile in his shoes.”
    Beat.
    â€œThat way, you’re a mile away and you’ve got his shoes.”
    She winks. My mom’s kind of queer but I can’t help but smile.
    â€œI better fill up the tank. You stay put.”
    She jumps out and slams the car door.

sixteen
    I t’s one of those dumb days where nothing’s really wrong but nothing’s really right either and the sky can’t even choose to be white or gray. It’s a Monday, of course, which also makes everything stupid. And I don’t know why, but I just have this feeling of dread, or depression, or some other word that starts with a D that makes you want to just crawl back in bed and pull your pillow over your head.
    There are some positives. For instance, I have managed to avoid Becky all morning. I got an A on my biology test. And, according to the cafeteria menu, there will be cupcakes.
    But other than that, the whole thing is just drab and pointless.
    Also, Logan doesn’t pass by at his usual time for us to pretend we totally don’t know each other and aren’t secret spies who are maybe madly in love or something.
    Kind of annoying.
    Right now I’m in the only cool room in the school, which is where we have art class. They built this annex way after they built the school with someone who actually seemed to care about what things looked like . . . natural light, the way the ceiling slopes, and, generally, creating an environment where a bunch of artistic teenagers wouldn’t want to throw themselves off the nearest bridge.
    To their credit, it worked. You do get the feeling when you walk in the room that something vaguely interesting could possibly happen here.
    But that also might be because our teacher is stoned.
    Did you know there’s something called marijuana? Yeah, you smoke it and all of a sudden you grow long hair, eat Cheetos, and listen to Pink Floyd till your mother knocks on the door to tell you to clean your room, or at least wash your hair, or possibly consider doing something with your life.
    There’s no question in my mind that Stoner Art Teacher had other plans.
    I know I should probably know his name by now but I can’t remember his name and that is probably because he can’t remember his name.
    I bet he thought when he grew up he’d be riding a motorcycle across the country like Che Guevara or Jack Kerouac or something but so far his stoner habit has only led him to teach a bunch of sulky teenagers how to paint trees.
    That’s what the sixties were for, I think. To turn everybody into losers. Also, to make sure everybody wore socks with sandals.
    Whenever old people tell you “you had to be there” and the “sixties were groovy” or whatever, just listen to the words of my mother: “Oh, honey, most of those people were just idiots. Sheep, following along. Remember that. Whenever you see everybody clamoring in one direction, do yourself a favor, go the other.”
    But right now we’re in class, learning about legendary Pop Art icon Andy Warhol. I am creating a masterpiece involving a series of identical ice-cream cones in a perfect pattern, with different ice-cream colors. Stoner Art Teacher is impressed so it is clear I will be running off to New York after graduation in a beret.
    All this hot art action is brought to a screeching halt by the fact that the fire alarm goes off and next thing you know we are all scuttling out the door.
    Outside on the lawn we’re the only class huddled together because our little architectural outpost is set off from the rest of the school. It’s freezing but everybody seems elated by the novelty of being