I am in my room, staring at the ceiling. The walls are pink. Pink like a princess dress; pink like the sky as the sun passes through the horizon; pink like the fur on my ten-year-old self's favorite stuffed bunny. I look out the window and spot a neighbor, burly from yardwork, tan from vacationing. A stern look upon his face, the same one he gives when he sees me but doesn't wave. So much for neighborly love. My eyes follow him around the corner through the woods to our library. Our library, where a man my dad's age passed my desk. A desk with study materials strewn across it. He uttered a single word; a slur. Who are you to make me feel unwelcome in my own town? I play tennis outside. The green fuzzy ball ricochets off my racket with a tock. Tock, tock, then I hear an engine. It revs as the driver screeches his car by. One passenger leans out and yells a single word; like he is reading from the same script as the library man. I go inside; I feel unsafe; they could come back. I stare at the ceiling of my room.