I remember walking through the desert after school. Rolling my black cello case through the rocky dirt and dust. Though technically it wasn’t the real desert, civilization was just a jog away, a short stretch to the City that Never Sleeps. The City stuck in the Mojave. To cut through the patch of dry sand was the fastest way to go home. I missed the bus, or rather I missed the bus on purpose. I couldn’t stand sitting next to them again. The boys who would tease me for my instrument, whose hands were always too close for comfort. I rather face a different kind of heat. Better to be a desert rat than a cornered mouse, I suppose.

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