I used to dash by, feeling like a dartboard, a big red bull's-eye that Mother pinged darts at.

I sat in the study parlor and wrote for hours-mostly term papers but also short stories, bad poetry, episodes of Dr. Kildare, Pall Mall jingles, letters of complaint, ransom notes, love letters to boys I'd seen in class but hadn't the nerve to speak to, all of which I never mailed. Sure, I dreamed of having football dates, but my real dream was that one day I would write something that people would actually read.

You is good, You is smart, You is important.

Let’s see . . . ah, yes, this is nice and cozy.”
It was a broom cupboard.

You is kind. You is smart. You is important.

Rita looked as though she would have liked nothing better than to seize the paper umbrella sticking out of Hermione's drink and thrust it up her nose.