So I got my grades back and they weighted everything against me so even though I improved in all my classes but one, my grades went down overall for the semester. Assholes. Anyway, I was kind of upset about it and I kind of started crying and walked out of Joe Zipolli's class, although I'm told he didn't notice, and I went to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee and some Sartre. It was almost empty but I couldn't focus and kept feeling dizzier and headacheier and worse, so I finished my coffee and went to talk to Quinones about why an A- and a B averaged to a B-. He said it was a typo but I started crying again and he took me in the stairwell so the whole language department didn't hear me and I started positively bawling, taking huge deep breaths and shaking and leaning on the wall and all that. He was very kind and told me not to worry, there's a million colleges, grad school, transferring, you have your whole life, this isn't really very important. I guess I stress out too much. Anyway, the fire alarm started ringing and he said, "Do you smell gas?" and I said "Yeah, a lot. I thought they were cooking somewhere." (I don't know why that made sense to me.) So we left the building and I was in the park and Jane and Ms. Reyes were being kind but I still felt dizzy and my headache was worse and they sent us all into the church and told everyone who felt sick to go to the back of the building. I ended up in ambulance with Pam Wood and a bunch of middle schoolers. "It's because I was crying for a while and breathing a lot and didn't sleep much and didn't eat anything," I said. "Do you still smell gas?" "Yeah, but I think they're cooking something." "Okay, it's the gas. Get in."

I ended up at Beth Israel with five sixth graders (out of the original fifteen or so) who thought I was very cool. They asked my opinion on everything--ripped jeans, music, boyfriends, high school, college, life. I answered honestly and they liked my answers. I told them stories about my UBC friends who got arrested in DC until they proved that the warrant was no good, and about sneaking into concerts and falling in love and discovering music and wearing my prom dress to Ray's Pizza and pretending I was part of the band to get into the Knitting Factory last year. I told them the history of the beatnicks and Bob Dylan's effect on the music scene and the definitions of surrealism and communism and existentialism. They were impressed. It felt good. I offered to turn my headphones inside out and play some music, and while I was reading random artists off of my playlist for them to choose from I found out that the shaggy-haired-kid's dad was the lead singer of the Cars. Then people started calling me and passing the phone around to say hi. The sixth graders were even more impressed. When I called my parents, my dad got very worried and my mom said, "Okay, just call me when you get home." Now I'm home and my parents aren't mad and my mom is calculating how much I need to improve my grades to get A's now and offering to take me to the Strand and buy some books, which I certainly don't mind. I feel a lot better now that I'm not worried about my parents freaking out, and about failing miserably at life, etc. Children are miracles.