The teacher who had taught in the art room before me was a gray-haired superhero in an apron. I know this because she was once my teacher.

The sound of my childhood bedroom door echoed as I opened it. I stood in the middle of the tiny blue room and imagined everything just as it was when I was 12 — my twin bed with a starry comforter, a collage on one wall of magazine cutouts (lots of ‘N Sync), murals of fairies, flying mice, frogs playing fiddles and other whimsical things on another wall. My parents let me paint anything I wanted to on one wall.