On November 18, 1996, I was ten years old. It was a Monday, and I was in fifth grade at a private academy. I was writing my morning assignment in the Writer’s Journal workbook and seeing if my writing humor could possibly outdo Mike R., the most excellent comedic writer in my fifth grade class. I was wearing my school uniform and still excited that I had just moved up to wearing the big girl’s uniform—a skirt and a sweater rather than a jumper. (Grades 1–4 wore the jumper, and grades 5–8 wore the skirts.) I had just started Nairing my legs (my mom would not yet allow me to use a razor), and I had no boobs whatsoever (not much has changed in the boob arena). I had not yet kissed a boy and spent a good portion of my days wondering if I was going to be a lesbian because girls were totally cuter than boys and I couldn’t imagine wanting to kiss one of the gross boys in my class.