The windows to the courtyard are open wide, calling the breeze inside, and it swirls around my arms and legs. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Stand still for I don’t know how long. Ever since hearing the news about the contest, I veer between abandonment to utter joy and moments when I move as if I must not disturb anything, not even make a wrinkle in the air, as if the slightest stir might sink this buoy of goodness, this gift that seems not quite true or real. Nearing my locker, I inhale, sharp. A white rectangle sticks to the chipped red surface, a tiny paper raft floating in a long rusty river. Forgetting the slow hesitancy my body has adopted this morning, I rush forward to see what’s there, bend down to read the envelope taped just above the lock. Olivia Peters it says, handwritten in jagged, harsh cursive. I peel it away from the metal, noticing the tiny red flecks of paint stuck to the Scotch tape. I slide my finger under the flap. Inside is a note, the same spiky handwriting dashed in a few short lines across steel gray paper.
