Its Saturday again, another family visit. I usually find myself anticipating Saturdays, then dreading them entirely. But, Saturdays seem like the only time that I feel like someone is listening to me.

I float around in this world seemingly unnoticed. My instructors at George C. Gill’s only pay attention to the pretty girls up front with the ratted hair and excessive lines of rouge streaking their cheeks. They giggle and swing their hair and have no ambition to be a secretary whatsoever.

I sit in the back, paying attention to my typewriter. Sometimes, I type out all the mean things that I wish I could just jump up and scream at everybody. Then, I just tear out the paper and crumple it up, pretending I had made a terrible error on my assingment and put it into my handbag when nobody is watching.

I really hope I make a good secretary. My mother wanted it so much for me. My father said it was an admirable career for modern girls. My brother just laughed. Now they all laugh silently in the mausoleum.