Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see.
#How old is rachel on the price is right how to
I would’ve known how to tell her it wasn’t mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I’d have known what to say when Mrs. Only today I wish I didn’t have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. And you don’t feel smart eleven, not until you’re almost twelve. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. And you are-underneath the year that makes you eleven. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today.
And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one.
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