It is Sunday, the day before I start school here in Austria, and the usual first day blues are on my mind. What should I wear? Am I going to sit with the cool kids or will this be another year with Clarence and the boys in the Audio/Visual club? I didn't do anything this summer, so should I make stuff up or tell them the truth: that grandma brought me to the hairdresser's after church every Sunday for her perm, some gossip, and sugar cookies? A part of me thinks that bare-back horse riding across the Mongolian steppe casts a shadow longer than the truth. Let's call that shadow “envy.”

Still, I think I'm ready for school. So what if I've got diabetes now from the sugar cookies and my sense of haute couture is limited to the sensibilities of dated fashionistas: muddled flower print dresses at three-quarters length, hospital issued stockings that rest around the ankles, and beehive hairdos held together with pin and prayer. Look for me on Monday and you'll find the guy smiling. It's a new year and I'll be the one wearing the navy blue cardigan and his best black underwear, waiting for lightning to strike.