Problem
t’s the middle of fifth grade. I’m ten years old. And I have no idea what I am doing at Rachel’s house. We’re not friends. I know she has Mr. R for math, but that’s it. When she invited me for a sleepover at her house with five other girls, I said yes reflexively, desperately wanting to be someone I wasn’t, someone who didn’t get nervous around her peers, someone who didn’t sit home alone on the weekends.
Within minutes of arriving, we’re sprawled out on the basement carpet, eating pizza and playing Truth or Dare.
I feel my stomach tighten. I do not want to play. I want to go home.
“Truth or Dare?” Rachel asks Carly.
“Dare,” Carly says with a