he first day we met was on the first day of school. It was my last year in high school. I would be graduating that year. Not that I really cared. Life then was full of senior high- school stuff—clothes, shoes, parties, boyfriends. Who cared about school? School was something we just had to finish and get out of the way. Sister Mary Aquinata lumbered into the room. She was big and tall, a little hunched, that’s why “lumbered” is the correct word to describe the way she walked. She looked at the class, gazed askance at each one of us. She was our class adviser. I thought she looked like an owl. She had a roundish face with round cheeks and round gray eyes. She wasn’t smiling. In fact, she was scowling at the class. She was going to teach us English literature and English composition, two of my best subjects. When our eyes met, I smiled at her. I thought I saw a glimmer in her eyes, which gave me a hint. Maybe she had a sense of humor.
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