Janet

“Can we open our books to page one-fifty-four, please?”

My voice sounded dry and empty, even to my own ears. I stood at the front of the classroom, pulling at the hem of my skirt. It was a bit shorter than my usual mid-calf woolen plaid skirts, and the low-rise top, a relic from my thirties that I’d found at the back of the closet this morning, felt like it was betraying me. I’d spent an hour flat-ironing my brunette hair and applying makeup, hoping it would hide the puffiness ...