From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Sight
The streetlamps flicker to life, casting a golden glow over my new wool knickers and the row of bright yellow Crayola boxes in the shop window. My older brother is hunched over a discarded paper, mumbling like a total blockhead about how Turkey must adopt Power's reform plan and how those telegrams from Austria and Russia mean nothing but trouble for Constantinople. I just tune him out, whistling "Ida, Sweet as Apple Cider" while the crisp autumn air nips at my ears. Everything feels bulky and heavy tonight, but all I can think about is snagging a nickel for some fresh bread before the gaslights dim.