J: You will not believe what Mom is doing.M: Ballroom dancing lessons? Hot-air balloon classes?

We bask in the scent of cinnamon beforeMom puts a scone her plate.'His name is Rich,' she says.I select a scone too.'I like a man with an adjective for a name.

M: Don't go there. Besides, you want to tell me about this prom date? Hmm?J: He's just a fiend. We barely know each other.M: Nice, The stuff dreams are made of.

M: Don't go there. Besides, you want to tell me about this prom date? Hmm?J: He's just a friend. We barely know each other.M: Nice. The stuff dreams are made of.

Life goes on, and deadlines arrive,even when it seems the world should stopout of respect for a shattered self-esteem.

Pumpkins. That's what we resemble--pumpkins, in our orange graduation robes.'This color makes me look so fat,'Angie says, straightening her cap.'Why can't our school have decent colors?''You're not fat,' Michael says, dressed in shirt and tie.You're glowing. Like a nuclear pumpkin.Very attractive, really.

But all I can come up with is: 'See you, Mr. Musker. And Thank you.'Words that are too smallbecause there are no words big enough.