There was this girl, who used to sit in front of me in History. She was...perfection in the eyes of her peers, though not in my eyes. I didn't understand it. Her hair was neat and clean and shiny, but it always had wisps over it, as though a subtle wind had blown precisely over her tightly bound hair, some tangent to the perfect circle of her skull.
I spent the long minutes of John Adams's presidency--the lonely parts of it--wondering what her luster was. I looked at the lint and the little piece of paper, torn from the edge of some looseleaf, stuck to the back of her light lavender unbuttoned button-up cardigan. I could see the black and white stripes of the shirt she wore underneath, to shyly peek between the somber brown buttons; that is to say, I could see through her back.
How strange that she had a black and white striped shirt, with the opposites lined up with perfectly straight, even borders. Did she know how wrong she was? The borders should be jagged, blurred, gray. They were all wrong. It was awful, disturbing. Why would she wear a shirt that would lie like that?