I’m late. Again. I can’t put on the polo Mom just washed. She used fabric softener. The shirt has miniature bumps, like sandpaper dragged across my shoulders, and the color; that washed-out navy, presses against my throat.
I sit in my room, staring at it, hoping to come to a truce with my school clothes. I try an undershirt tucked into my khaki skort. It’s working doub...