I get through it, trying not to pay attention to the voices in my head telling me how stupid I am for making such a ridiculous mistake

There’s the tinny sound of the broken school bell, a flushed Mrs. Lieberman leaves the classroom under a pile of papers, and finally, school’s out. Yaffa and I stroll down Brent Street, hair softly waving in the breeze, a beam of sunshine breaking through the clouds like an unexpected gift. My bag is light, finals are over, and studying’s done, after two months of all-nighters and crammed days where vacation felt a million miles away. “Now,” I say dramatically to Yaffa, “It’s time to partyyy!” We pick up the delicious scent of pizza and fries, and, following our noses, we find food.

Two iced coffees and a box of chili fries later, we’re back on the street again, wending our way toward the bus stop, the pavement congested with school kids. It’s then, when we’re deeply involved in our conversation about the dress I’ll be wearing to Nachi’s bar mitzvah, that I walk into the road and see a gray BMW far too close to my face. I hear Yaffa’s panicked scream. There’s a long blast of a horn as I’m thrown into the air, and the world goes black.

***

I was unconscious for a while, my mother tells me, as I blink at the bright lights in the emergency room and reach toward my head which is throbbing rhythmically. “Don’t touch,” Mom tells me gently, holding my hands, “You’ve been given strong painkillers, and they’re going to stitch you up, but it’s quite a cut you’ve given yourself there, Dassa.” I groan. Stitches, I think, just before Nachi’s bar mitzvah, for crying out loud. And despite the fact that I know it could have been much worse, I feel incredibly sorry for myself.