Hashem... You made Ma my teacher for a reason, so please please don’t let anything bad come from it

The sun is shining through my shades and I feel oddly peaceful as I lay curled up under the sheets. Calm and happy and centered…. I just want to lie here, and omigosh, it’s the first day of school. I sit bolt upright in bed as a wave of nausea cascades over me.

For something I’ve been actively dreading all summer, I feel completely unprepared for the day ahead of me. At least picking an outfit is easy. My uniform has those knife-sharp, never-been-worn pleats, and the starched collar and soft sweater are invitingly perfect. I’m obsessed with my shoes; me and Debbi got the same ones, but who cares?

In ninth grade it would have been a state secret where I bought my shoes and now it’s like, the more the merrier, why should it bother me?

Maybe I’m just sooo mature.

I look in the mirror, swoop my hair into a scrunchie, and make a face. Then again, maybe not.

I dab on some lip balm, throw on a coat of lash serum (technically not makeup, right?), and pinch some color into my cheeks.

I’m nauseous with nerves. Like actually nauseous. I close my eyes, take a deep breath. And standing in middle of my room, I do what I should have done for the past two years of high school: I daven about my dread.

Hashem, I think, please let it be such a good year. You made Ma my teacher for a reason, so please please don’t let anything bad come from it.