Speaker 1: ... and let out the air a little bit at a time. That's why I texted her two days later. I had planned to talk to her at school, but she refused to go. Letter to fourth graders. If I could write a letter to my fourth grade class, I would keep it short, because we didn't have long attention spans in fourth grade. I would say this. Dear fourth graders, I know you all think boob is a funny word and it is, but it won't be for long. Okay, maybe it will still be funny for the boys in eighth grade. But for eighth grade girls, there's nothing funny about boobs. They hurt sometimes when they're growing. And they don't always grow in evenly. And sometimes they grow in all at once. It is possible to go visit your grandma in Florida for spring break and come back with big lumps of flesh, poking through your shirt.

And before you know it, you're standing in a garden while two grown men yell at you and make you cry because your shirt no longer fits. And if that's not your story, you may wake up every single day, peak down your shirt, close your eyes tight, open them, and then look to see if anything has popped up overnight. And when it hasn't, you will put on the bra you don't need and wear a baggy shirt, because you don't want people to notice you still look like a fourth grader. No offense. And then you and your friend with the big lumps of flesh will walk around in your ill fitting shirts with your shoulders rounded because you have grown to hate the word you once thought was so funny, boob. The biggest four letter word of middle school.

Backstory, I used to be better friends with Olivia and Pearl. Olivia was in my fifth grade class and Pearl was in my sixth grade class. They were both lunch table friends as opposed to sleep over friends or the even closer double sleepover friends. We talked about homework and sat together at assemblies and picked each other first, or at least second or third for teams at recess. I knew Olivia had a secret crush on Raul. And Pearl and I fake dated a few of the same boys. Fake dating in fifth and sixth grade means telling everyone you're dating, then making sure you don't make eye contact with your fake boyfriend until you break up a week later. I'll never forget the time Nick was about to pull the chair out from under me, just as I was sitting down and Olivia punched him and saved me from falling. She got sent to the office for that. And I felt really bad, but she assured me it was worth it.

I lost touch with Olivia in seventh grade, because I hadn't seen much of her in sixth grade. And because Olivia got into seventh grade honors. I lost touch with Pearl because Pearl isn't allowed to have Snapchat, which kind of makes her a social outcast. I wish it didn't have to be that way. And because Pearl also got into honors. I didn't get into honors because I'm a pretty average person in every way. I wouldn't say I try my best at school, lacrosse, clarinet or life in general. But compared to my brother, Danny, I'm a rock star. Pearl and Olivia are pretty good friends. If I had to guess, because I haven't really talked much to Pearl or Olivia this year, they're sit on the bus together on field trips friends. And maybe sleep over friends, but probably not double sleep over friends. I hung out with my lacrosse team for a while in seventh grade, because it was easy to make plans after practice and half of us still weren't allowed to use our phones unless it was for an emergency.

So making plans in person was our only option. I can assure you our forbidden phones were ringing off the hook when Fisher Middle School went into active shooter lockdown last spring. Mrs. [Pohlmann 00:04: 26], thought she heard Chris Reynolds say he was hiding a bomb. We're still not sure if he actually said that, but we went on lockdown and Chris Reynolds got suspended. My mom has said, "I love you Molly," at drop-off every morning since that day. Even when she's in a miserable mood because of Danny. At least twice a month, she'll remind me, if there's a shooter, don't necessarily do what the teachers tell you to do. Listen to your gut. Run, if your gut tells you to run.