From the front of the classroom I hear them whisper again. The snake-like hiss creeps up my spine and sends another static shiver through me. I wonder if they are talking about me. If they are talking about the girl in the milk curdling hand-me-downs. I take a quick look back and the chattering falls into a sudden silence, confirming my suspicion, and a hot tear drips onto the the disgusting green shirt.
It has ruffles crowded around the edge and a small neck hole that makes me feel like I am being choked. The fabric clings to my arms and bunches at my waist, and is too small for me in some places, but I know that I will never fit into others. I try to avert my eyes from the vomit like color. Perhaps it was meant to be olive, but now, decades away from it's trend, it doesn't have the same effect.
It doesn't smell like me either. It smelled like Katie's closet: the old closet beside her printed valedictorian degree and the picture of her at Teen Jeopardy. It smells like spilled chowder and moving boxes and stories that are probably lovely, but aren't mine.
One of the girls looked at me from the back if the room and snicker. Slips of paper exchange hands under the desks and more cackles are stifled. My face feels fiery and the shirt started to smell like saltwater.
"Katie doesn't cry," I whisper, "Katie takes her notes and listens to the teacher. If you follow her lead, you can be just as smart. You can go to an Ivy League and be valedictorian and graduate with honors. Mom can be proud of you too."
I tugged on the ruffles of the sticky green shirt.