My Cardboard Balcony

In Philadelphia by Belinda Roddie In Philadelphia, I eat cheesesteak and drink a chocolate martini. I doze until eleven - a well-deserved break from the real world. My sister knows that we have a lot more to do. We walk on the parkway - I get to see the work of Rodin, and over lunch, get to talk my twin's ear off. We avoid all the jerks on the road and have drinks in dapper dress, and I get to watch, fresh on DVD, a musical I missed. She is the best person to watch onstage. Her energy is contagious. This trip was worth the wait, without argument and without debate.

I got some award for some sort of academic achievement. Not sure what, specifically. All I know is that the teachers sent an email chain to one another about which students academically achieved more, and in what ways their achievements were academic. Then they printed out duplicate sheets with fake gold stamping, and they typed my name in a weird calligraphy font, and the principal and my recommending teacher signed it with a flourish, congratulating me on how much I academically achieved academically.