Turn 15 of 26

You remember the outfits of everyone and realize it’s almost the same. A white button down under a sweater vest, suspenders or cardigan with a name tag of the their first name stitched to the breast. The tiered, Pleated or plaid skirt down to their ankles with the button down tucked into it. Knee high socks all cover their feet as flats or loafers are on their feet. You soon get to studying

You open the door to your room — E. KESSLER on the paper nameplate, your handwriting, though you don't remember writing it — and inside it's small and neat and warm: a desk lamp, bookshelves sagging with math texts and compiler manuals, a bed with a knitted quilt. No string lights. No vanity. You don't look for them.

Standing at the closet, you remember the outfits of everyone — all thirty of you — and the realization arrives quietly, the way the day's realizations do: it's almost the same. A white button-down under a sweater vest. Suspenders, or a cardigan with a first name stitched to the breast. The tiered, pleated or plaid skirt down to the ankles, the button-down tucked into it. Knee-high socks. Flats or loafers. Thirty girls, one uniform, and you open your own closet and find it hanging there in your size: two button-downs, a gray sweater vest, a pleated skirt, a cardigan with EMMAN stitched in red thread. Suspenders. Knee socks. Flats polished and waiting. You own nothing else. You have owned nothing else for years, apparently.

You lay tomorrow's uniform out on the chair, the way you always do, and sit down at the desk, and you study. That part is easy now — easier than easy. Thursday's problem set, then the compiler notes, then reading ahead for the silent class, and the hours go by in the warm lamplight with your pencil scratching and your lisp murmuring the notation under your breath. You're good at this. You've always been good at this. The valedictorian memory stands behind every answer like a supportive parent.

At some point your stomach growls and you find a stash of cookies in your desk drawer and eat four without deciding to, licking crumbs from your braces. At some point your hand reaches for your phone to check the time and finds nothing there, and you check the clock on the wall instead, and that feels normal, and it is nearly ten.

And once — just once, between two problems — you stop, pencil hovering, with the feeling that there was something you were supposed to be worried about. Something with letters. Something with a name. The thought stands at the edge of you like a knock at a door you can't find, and then Priya's method for the singular term comes back to you and you lean over the notebook again, warm and busy and belonging, and the knock goes unheard.