So I went to a movie theatre. I sat down, and two rows in front of me was my family. All four of us, the backs of our heads, including mine, just sitting in front of a blank screen. I could see myself very clearly: it was second-grade me, seven years old. How do I know it was second-grade me? I know because it was a dream.
They were talking but I couldn’t hear any words. I leaned forward in my seat to catch a better glimpse of second-grade me’s profile. And there I was: my nose, my boring brown eyes, my hair in a ponytail, my pale skin, my freckles—it was me.
My family disappeared, so I decided to go talk to second-grade me. I sat down in the movie seat next to her and looked at her face. She sat on her knees in the chair and turned her body towards me, closely examining my face. She yawned. I could see her teeth. Oh my god, those are my teeth. I was too terrified to speak. What if I disappoint her, I am going to be so disappointing to her. Please don’t ask about the future, please don’t ask about the future, please don’t ask about the future. She reached out and touched my hair.
“Your hair is fancy,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t wash it today.”
I woke up before either of us could ask any questions.