I am the best goddamn dancer in the American Ballet Academy. Who the hell are you? Nobody.

Heather Anne's cousin asked: So when you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up? Do you still wish you could?*

When I was little, I wanted to be a ballerina. Like every other little girl. If I could travel back in time, I would kick 5-year-old Jennie's ass for being so conventional. But there you have it. I wanted to be a tiny, tutu-ed, girl in tights. That, or Peter Pan. But not like a boy Peter Pan, like the girl version of Peter Pan. Patricia Pan. I'm pretty sure that was only because I wanted to be able to fly. I can't tell you how many times I stood on the edge of my bed with my eyes squeezed shut, thinking happy thoughts as hard as I could, only to jump off and open my eyes and my heart would die a little bit every time I realized I was on the floor and not the ceiling. Ha, Mom and Dad, I bet you didn't know I used to do that. Should I mention I was jumping off of the top bunk bed? Cause I was. Just be glad I wasn't jumping off the roof or something. I'd like to say I grew out of this, but I'm still half-convinced that I really could fly if only I could find the right happy thought.

Anyway, so I wanted to be a ballerina. But I quit because I hurt my ankle. Or because I was lazy and unmotivated. Either way, it was probably for the best. Ballerinas are willowy and graceful. I am neither. I walk into walls and door frames and piece of furniture sober (don't even ask about the damage I do to myself while drunk), which is why I am usually covered in bruises. Not because Heidi abuses me. Don't call the cops, put down the phone, I'm fine . . . just clumsy.

In fourth grade, though, I gave up dreams of THE DANCE and decided I wanted to be a writer. Mrs. Castrejon encouraged us all to write stories in her class but BEST OF ALL she had a little room set up so we could make our stories into real books. Cardboard for the cover, construction paper in every color you could imagine, and yarn to tie it all together. My favorite moments in that class were the quiet hours spent meticulously copying my words into a real, honest-to-god book. And when I think of myself like that, head bent low over the desk, biting the inside of my lip when I made a mistake, wondering whether to try and fix it or just start over, I realize that I haven't changed that much and maybe I'm not so grown up after all. So I take a deep breath, lean back from the desk, and send up a silent thank you that there's still time.

*Keep 'em coming . . . if I'm lucky, I won't have to think of an original topic for months