You know that shade of pink you see when you cut into the middle of a perfectly cooked medium-rare steak? Well, that’s the color my back is.

The only difference is that the fresh-off-the-grill steak isn’t nearly was hot as my back feels right now.

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I feel I need to be a little bit more worried about getting my luggage put together right now than I really am. By this time next week my feet will be more-or-less firmly planted in this little city you might have heard of. Paris, to be exact.

Yes, the one in France.

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Some people claim they can tell when the weather is going to change because they have some sort of “trick joint.”

“Oh man, looks like we’re in for a cold front,” they say. “My knee is acting up again.”

Of course, there is also the chance their swelling could also be called by another name—a little medical term doctors like to diagnose as “arthritis.”

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The thought suddenly occurred to me sometime last week that this was it; my high school career was coming to an abrupt close without my permission and there was nothing I could do about it.

I’ve been living this year as if it wasn’t actually going to be the end of anything. Yes, I’ve been counting down the days until summer vacation, but then in another three months I would be walking right back through the doors of Hillsboro High School. A fifth-year senior.

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