They blaze into Room 309 at 8:16, sporting new t-shirts and vintage ones, silver watches and Silly Bandz, first-day-of-school garb. I hand them a yellow index card. "Write for me," I say, "Begin with, 'I am...' or 'I am not..."' Off they go, scribbling first words with their newly sharpened pencils. They despise school. They adore school. They'd like school, if only, if only, if only... Their summer? They've gone swimming with sea turtles in Hawaii. Their parents have divorced. They've been diagnosed. Or, trapped in summer school. Their beloved grandmother has died. They are 13 years old.