“Good morning!” I blink. It must be a teacher because… Most students don’t stand in the doorway of the copy-workroom to talk to me. But it’s one of my third-year girls, one of the ones I like the best because she, for example, is willing to stand in the doorway of the copy-workroom to talk to me. There are two best friends with almost the same name, but this is the prettier of the two, so I remember her name as the one that sounds weirder in English.
“Good morning!” I smile.
“Your skirt is very.. good!” she says. “Very cute!” there are “o”s lingering on the ends of her words. skaato, guudo, kyuuto. I don’t mind, although maybe I should.. it might be my job to mind.
“Thank you!” I say and smile again. I really like this skirt. Something about it makes everyone think I made it myself. I guess it looks kind of homemade. It’s just prairie enough that it wears easy, washes easy, but it’s long enough to wear to work. It’s not very businesslike, but it’s fine for a Friday. Or any day. Who really cares what I wear. Except for the 3rd year girls, of course, and that one teacher who is nice enough to compliment me on new haircuts and anytime I try something adventurous with an accessory.
As she walks away I glance in the mirror above the workroom sink. “God I look like a crazy person,” I note, trying to smooth down the left side of my hair. Normally the left side will lay flat and it’s the right I have to worry about. But I guess the humidity will play havoc no matter what I try. I give up, slice up my phonics worksheets to their proper size, hole-punch them so I don’t have to collect them (but I probably will), and march my brown tennis-shoe self right out of that workroom.