Thanks to booster2051, savedbygrace95, kristelalugo, and hippiechick2112 for reviewing! And setting the scene has always been my weakest point, but since it's been pointed out, I will try to work on that :)

A note on books - I generally try to include books that I think are worth reading (e.g. back in 1963, Scott read Of Mice and Men and Island of the Blue Dolphins, both of which are beautiful books I recommend highly to anyone). That is very much not my intention with the Dick and Jane reference... as will probably be clear.

April 5, 1964

Dear Diary,

(That counts as two lines, Professor!)

Honestly. Dear Diary.

First, this is not a diary, this is notebook paper folded in half and then stapled. Because I don't want a diary anyway, who cares.

Second, I do not understand the diary concept. Do I assume this is someone reading? Which I won't do, because you said—because Professor Xavier said he won't read my diary unless I say so. Which, why would I do that?

So I don't want to do a diary and if anyone asks I haven't and I will find a way to hide this so it looks like it got lost. Just in case, I am sort of trying this out. I woke up early again. At least the diary is something to do.

Only sort of and I can quit if I want to.

If I quit, I don't get the extra credit and I fail English. That obviously isn't a problem at this school, where I wouldn't be the first person with those kinds of grades. I would just be a person with those kinds of grades. I do not care to be that.

Because I am smart.

No one told me this before. No one told me I was stupid, either, but people don't tell you that you are smart unless you go to school. They call you—a best translation is clever. Smart means knowing things out of books. Clever means thinking standing up and knowing what you see in the world.

When I came to the United States, when the nuns brought me to live in the orphanage, I didn't know what to expect. I expected nothing in particular. What I got…

Last year, around September, Ruth took me into the city in a terrifying car. She drives like crazy. We went into the city to see the zoo because I told her I missed the openness of home and Ruth swore never to speak a word about what happened by the elephants.

Elephants look more like us than Americans think. I saw pictures in books, the boring kind they give babies like those stupid Dick and Jane books. Dick and Jane can cram it up their backsides. I HATE DICK AND JANE.

Not that you would ever read this, Professor, but if you are, do you not see now why I hate English? Imagine you have to read those stupid poem-book things at thirteen. Imagine you have never read a book before and all that effort, all those silly sounds and struggling with English, goes into, "See Dick run. Run, Dick, run. Run run run."

And the elephants look tiny, like they have round bodies—that part is true—and short legs. And that part is not true. They have long, thin(ish) legs and yes, their bodies are round, but when they move you the bottom rib and it looks like mine feels if I rub my hand just there over my belly.

I watched the elephants in the zoo. They were fat and sad, locked in a tiny cage. They stretched their trunks out and I saw a little boy reach out and yank the elephant's trunk. I wish I had stuck him with lightning that second. He deserved it. I didn't, but the elephant was so loud the boy cried.

This is the part Ruth promised not to tell. I cried, too.

I wanted to let the elephants out.

They looked how I felt, taken away to a place where the sky was so small (not so bad at the mansion, though), to be gawked at by white people (also not so bad at the mansion).

Even if I let them out of the little cages, they would still be in the city. They were truly prisoners. They had no chance of freedom.

Stupid diary. Now I feel sad again.

Get bent, diary. I am going to wake Scott for pancakes.