Anndee hochman biography of abraham

“Zachary Kahn-Molina, do you have siblings?”

Mr. Rattrazino paused, stub of yellow chalk cinched between his second and third fingers like the suave, chain-smoking lead of a 1930s movie.

Rattrazino—mostly, we called him “Mr.

Anndee hochman biography of abraham

R,” though a few smart-asses (usually after they’d bombed a test) muttered “Mr. Rat” behind his back—was old-school that way. He declined the offer of a smart board even after the PTA held a gazillion bake sales and magazine drives to outfit every classroom with “21st-century technology,” forgetting that only people who’ve spent most of their conscious existence in a different century bother to name the one we’re in.

For us, high-school kids conceived on the lip of the millennium—the moment when everything was supposed to apocalyptically crash but instead went on ticking—the 2000s are just our lives.

The years in which we had the weird and tragic luck of being born. The water we thrash in.

“The rising-sea-level-full-of-dead-coral-rapidly-warming-ocean water,”