Tenth grade was somewhat more settled--y'know, as much as you can expect sophomore year, and over inflated ego aside. Besides my bi-weekly appointments (twice a week, not every other week, very important), I was almost always in school. I actually made a few new friends, which is impressive in tenth grade--most all of the cliques are formed as freshmen, if not before. But through the AV club, and, yes, band, I actually met some new kids who didn't stare at me or ask too many questions--even when I couldn't march, or had to sit practice out one day. It was new and refreshing, and I felt whole. Then came February.
I've always hated February. It seems to be shedding Winter, but still fighting Spring--like a naked snake. Isn't that a lovely image. When I was seven, my grandma sent us money to go out for Valentine's Day, which--okay, going out on Valentine's Day is kinda stupid anyway, especially with a family, and really especially if you don't make reservations (DAD), but then, as we were finally eating our meal--at, like, ten at night, I might add--a snowstorm decided that that would be the perfect time to dump three feet of snow all at once. On our heads. We were stuck at the restaurant till five AM the next morning. I still blame February. And Dad.
Then when I was ten, it was in February that my family got some, well, life altering news, though I guess we'd had a slight inkling that it was coming...but then--THEN--there was the February my sophomore year of high school.
