She’s caught off guard. She doesn’t understand. She disagrees. She thinks I’m seeing things wrong. Either way, the conversation is being had. I am saying the things I need to get off my chest. She takes it surprisingly well, I think, after she hangs up. Five hours later a text arrives.

“We have a game we play when we’re waiting for tables in restaurants, where you have to write the five things that describe yourself on a piece of paper…”

I can tell by her hair, her posture, the way she’s walking. It was Brittany –the witch (as I now refer to people in front of Emmy) who made my life Hell through middle school and high school.