Once, a note that was being passed in study hall ended up on the floor. I saw my name on it and picked it up. “Her name’s Priscilla,” I read. “She’s supposed to be Elvis Presley’s new girlfriend. If we make friends with her, maybe she’ll introduce us to him. Oh, God, wouldn’t that be neat!” I didn’t know who the writer was, but I couldn’t mistake the meaning. The friendly smiles concealed intentions to get to Elvis through me. Consequently, I was afraid to get close to anyone at school, and began to feel lonely and unhappy.
