It was the summer of ’97. I had just finished drying my tears filled with memories of Weibel Wildcat runs, apprehension for the uncomfortable and defining period of my life people kept calling Junior High, and the realization that my innocence would perhaps be forever lost. We spent our days under the blithe California sun sneaking into the neighbor’s neglected backyard concocting stories of the witch and her cauldron of a pool filled with all the potions and magical artifacts that would one day blow up in her face and avenge all her wrongdoings. In the afternoon I would go to gymnastics class, frantically changing in the back of Trooper, the red Volvo station wagon that kept chugging along due to its “sturdy German upbringing,” get to class 5 minutes late, huffing and puffing, having missed stretching, with my leotard inside out, and my grips mysteriously misplaced.