Part Eleven: The Good Year

It was a good year.

I am not going to pretend it was not, and I have noticed that in the versions of this I have told badly, I skip it, and skipping it is a way of making myself less responsible.

We moved in the January to a two-bedroom in a building on the east side of Stamford with a doorman who called Junie “boss.” It had radiant heat instead of forced air, which mattered more than anything else about it, and no carpet, and a window in the bathroom.

Junie went to a school where she was not the kid who could not do the fun run.