I slid my book into my backpack and zipped up slowly, waiting for everyone else to leave. When I laid my letter down on Ms. Trepky’s desk the day before, I hadn’t been nervous. But now she was holding the words I’d written, worked so carefully on, ready to tell me all the things that were wrong with them. Worth it, of course, because this had to be the greatest writing ever, but still. Walking toward her and her feedback felt a little like walking into surgery.

Ms. Trepky set the envelope in my hands. “First,” she said, “I wanted to tell you that you did a fantastic job. Your enthusiasm is infectious and makes reading about Cecilia a joy. Your explanations are clear and your descriptions evocative.”

“Really?” I said.

“Absolutely,” she said. “I want you to remember that when you open this envelope. I didn’t hold back, Libby. I know you’re taking this seriously, and my feedback reflects that. I wrote up a short edit letter that you’ll find stapled to the front, and then I made in-line notations as well. Don’t be overwhelmed when you see the red marks. Every professional writer gets these edit letters and red marks to make their work sparkle. This truly is an excellent first draft, and I look forward to reading the project portion of the letter as you complete it.”

I looked at the envelope, half expecting it to start bleeding red ink. If Ms. Trepky thought I could handle this like a professional, I would. My last two classes of the day were going to be stare-at-the-clock classes while I waited to get home and get to work.

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so, so much.”

“My privilege,” said Ms. Trepky. She sounded like she meant it.

When I finally got home I didn’t pause for a snack but went straight to my room and opened up the manila envelope. I flipped past the edit letter and saw the red marks like a very bad case of the chicken pox.

Step by step. I’d just have to take it step by step. First thing was the edit letter, talking about big things like smoother transitions in certain parts, or suggestions for the next part of the letter, getting specific about how Cecilia inspired me, a girl with Turner syndrome.

So much to do. So much shifting and rearranging before I even got to the red pox. I kept at it, slicing and dicing, cleaning and polishing.

Red started swirling behind my eyes and I knew I needed a break. Time for that missed snack.

On the way back to my room, a cup of grapes in one hand, I stopped in front of Nonny’s room. She was talking to someone.

“… isn’t under your jurisdiction, though. You shouldn’t have to cover for people so much.”

I had to scoot close to the door to hear. It sounded like she was on the phone with Thomas.

“I know,” she said. “Yeah, I … that’s … I hate the way they’re treating you. I know, but I wish there was something else … I hate this.”