From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Sight
The sky is still bruised from the midnight fireworks, reflecting off my metallic silver puffer jacket as I kick my Razor scooter past the glowing neon of the 7-Eleven. My older brother is freaking out because he just shelled out $1.51 a gallon to fill his beat-up sedan, swearing the world was supposed to end at midnight, but everything looks exactly the same—totally normal. I’ve got "Smooth" blasting in my ears, and some clueless newbie is already trying to start a "Wassup?" chant on the corner like it hasn't been overdone for months. My low-rise jeans are dragging in the slush, but I don't care; the Y2K bug didn't bite, and I've got a whole new millennium to waste.