I pull my sleeves over my hands, leaving just my burning cigarette sticking out, and cross my arms tight across my small chest, pressing in on my soft...breasts. I’m wearing onesie pajamas, the sort you put babies in. At only 5 feet tall, I purchased some out the kids section at Target. I’ve got a hoodie on over my onesie and the cement is still hurting my feet through the thin fabric with its cold. I take another drag. Damn. I am thinking about you again. I can already feel myself getting wet. I. Same on my left hand. I didn’t cry – I wouldn’t dare in front of the rest of the class but the pain was intense and I definitely had tears in my eyes as I gathered up my things and moved to my new seat. However, it is my experiences with my History teacher, Miss Manson which have stuck in my memory even more. I first experienced Miss Manson shortly after starting at the school and she was teaching us Geography. Her lessons aren’t memorable and I only ever got told off once that year by her –. More

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