It was the year 17 magazine’s horoscope warned me of MAJOR drama. The year of cosmic bowling alleys and learning to read palms, the year we made a home out of our local hookah lounge. It was the year we found ghosts in our cereal bowls and haunted houses in ourselves. The year we called our clique The Bitches and discovered five-finger discounts. We came to school coughing up clouds, claiming pink-eye, insomnia, skunks. The year I broke up with the boy who made me flinch at the doorbell, so he punched a tree outside my house, splintered his knuckles with the bark. It was the year of the girl who tasted like gumballs and what-the-fuck-do-I-tell-my-parents. It was the year I corrected people who mispronounced my name.