Stewardess

The worse I do at school, how I am rebellious. I drink, I smoke pot, I misbehaved myself. I am vaguely aware of the inverse of my grades and my rebellion, but do not really think about. I prefer Nick's theory. He says I do not do well in school because I got shit on everywhere. This is perhaps the only thing he ever said about me a little true. (He describes me mostly as a cocky glutton who wants attention. Even my father knows better.) But my behavior in general is bright, whimsical, irrepressible, and therefore I accept that, as I change accept that my body undergoes.

Finally, if my figures are very low, my rebellion reached its peak. I walk into a salon in Bradenton Mall inside and ask the hairdresser to give me a mohawk. I tell him he should shave the sides very briefly, in the middle with a thick pointed her job.

Sure, kid?

I want it high, and I want it pointed. Then you paint it pink.

He has eight minutes to work with his clippers. Then he says: Ready! And turns me into the chair. I look in the mirror. The earring was good, this is better. I can not wait to Mrs.. G's eyes to see.

If I'm out shopping and the bus to the Bollettieri Academy'm waiting, there's nobody recognizes me. Children who I tennis, children with whom I share a bunk looking past me. A casual observer might think I've made a desperate attempt to stand out. But in fact, I myself, my true self, made invisible. At least that was the intention.

I fly home and Christmas when the plane approaches the Strip, the casinos under the sloping wings sparkle like a row of Christmas lights, the stewardess said we should wait with countries.

Groans.

Because we know you all want in the casino quickly, she says, we thought it would be nice for a little gamble until we can land.

Cheers.

If you all a dollar in the paper barf bag stop, then you write your seat number on the stub of your ticket and you put in the barf bag. We get a check slip, and that person wins the jackpot!

They collect all the dollars, while another attendant retrieves the control markers. Now she is in the plane and puts her hand into the bag.

And the grand prize goes to, drum roll please, 9F!

I'm 9F. I won! I get up and wave. The passengers turn around and see me. More moans. Great, that kid with the Mohawk haircut has won.

The flight attendant gives me the barf bag unwilling to ninety-six U.S. dollars.