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Turquoises in All Night Laundry.
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And they’re in a different memory.

She isn’t eleven, anymore. She’s twelve, and very proud of that fact; they’re at a moderately fancy restaurant, eating moderately fancy food with moderately fancy relatives, to celebrate.

”So, Amaris,” says her uncle. He always wears a business suit and a tie, and he’s the most moderately fancy of anyone here. “How is school going?”

She stares at him, blankly.

Her father’s smile grows strained.

”We’re homeschooling her,” says her mother, dabbing at her mouth wth a napkin. “She’s excellent at math, history, and science, although even though we have to spend more time on English she excels at it, really, so long as she really applies herself...”

”You can’t just keep coddling her,” opines the uncle, who in addition to being the most moderately fancy is also the most moderately drunk. “She’s gonna have to live in the real world at some point. What are you gonna do, just keep her in that house ‘till she’s fifty?”

”Plenty of people homeschool their children,” glares her father. “She just needs time...”

”She’s gonna need more of it than you can give her, if she keeps acting like a re -“

“Stop it, Mark,” snaps her mother. “Amaris, sit down.”

Oh, had she stood? She hadn’t realized.

She runs. She runs and she runs and she runs and she’s in the restaurant’s bathroom, sniffling and looking in the mirror and sniffling some more.

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