So she wants me to talk about it. Well, okay. Talking isn’t impossible anymore. I’m almost back to my regular, motor-mouth self.
She (Linda) brought me this tape recorder, some cherry Kool-Aid and let me sit in her new mod spin-y chair. The microphone’s plugged in, the recorder’s on.
First, my name. It’s Trudi. NOT Gertrude. That’s Trudi with an “I.”
Last year, in third grade, I always dotted the “I” in my name with a groovy flower or smiley face. Then, a few months ago, at the beginning of fourth grade, I stopped because I didn’t care about flowers anymore or feel like smiling about anything. That’s what Linda wants me to talk about: the weeks that got dark even when the sun blazed in the sky.
My story begins at the end of third grade, last spring. (I was nine then. I’m ten now.)