A neighbor down the hall is designating girls’ spiritual gemstones by their aura. “Not your Christian birthstone—none of that bullshit. Your real birthstone, like, I mean, you can’t look it up, I mean like it’s a Hindi witch art. Like Ali is totally raw quartz. You guys know. Jessica, garnet.”
“What’s mine?” i’m wearing a big t-shirt and no pants, filling up a watering can at the drinking fountain (thirsty plants).
“Jane,” I like the way they are smirking when they say my name, real genuine, without intended hurt: “Yeah. You got, brown.”