To the Class of '29

(Or, what the Class of '99 is still teaching me)

I don’t remember the first day of high school. If I try, I can pull up fragments—stories, faces, flashes of moments—but lining them up by year is tricky.

Usually, I sort them by who I was dating or obsessing over at the time (rarely the same person). That’s my internal filing system.

If I’m honest, most of high school I was scared I was pregnant. Which is…