My 7th grade English teacher was just three toddlers stacked on top of each other. The middle toddler googled every question we asked on an iPhone. You could see it through his shirt, star-bright.
The world felt like something awful impending. June gloom had set in early; Mercury was back in retrograde. Everyone was jittery, uncertain, a little gun shy.
It was an easy thing, that winter, to realize that you were not, in fact, you—rather you were the untitled, draft email of yourself, addressed to no one.
On break, he spoke to us through the order box. The sun warming our necks, we tossed French fries to seagulls and smelled the electric static on his breath.