Question

Story 1
When I was about eleven, H and I ran into my bedroom and I slightly misjudged the doorway and went either
side of the doorframe. ... of those toes and I got taken to accident and emergency and I sat there for maybe
three hours and then the doctor said there's nothing we can do
Story 2
some time ago in London. I had to go to the tube station and . I was really in a rush and in the tube. I
hurt my elbow and I hurt my arm but I was just really embarrassed because everyone saw that.
Story 3
I remember It was a summer's day in my nan's back garden and My nan had a thorn bush and my mum
and dad told me specifically not to go near the thorn bush. There was a set of steps next to it. I decided it would be a
good idea to not just go near the thorn bush but down the steps, straight into the thorn bush. I ended up
and had to go to hospital.​

Answer 1

they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell  you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and  seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when  you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you  don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's  today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you  are --underneath the year that makes you eleven.   Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of  you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your  mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five.  And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry  like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad  and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.   Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings  inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the  other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.     You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even,  sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you  don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.   Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like  pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two  instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known  what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've  known how to tell her it wasn't min instead of just sitting there with that  look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth. 2   "Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the  air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a  month."   "Not mine," says everybody. "Not me."   "It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can  remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and  sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a  thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so.   Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that  stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater  like that, all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes  the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth  nothing comes out.   "That's not, I don't , you’re not...Not mine," I finally say in a little voice  that was maybe me when I was four.   "Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it  once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not.   Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page  thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a  sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to  come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my  teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is  making a cake for me tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will  sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.   But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red  sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater  to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and  eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right.  Not mine, not mine, not mine.   In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take  the red sweater and throw it over the school yard fence, or even leave it  hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in  the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front  of everybody , "Now Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved  the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over  the edge like a waterfall, but I don't' care.   "Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that  sweater on right now and no more nonsense."  "But it's not--" "Now!" Mrs. Price says. This is when I wish I wasn't eleven, because all the years inside of me ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two and one the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater  that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other  and stand there with my arms apart l does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine. That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since  when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a  sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not.  I’m eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like  of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my  stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my  mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me,  until there aren't any more tears left in shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like  when you drink milk too fast. But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid  Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia  remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to  her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay. Today I'm eleven. There's cake Mama's making for tonight, and when  Papa comes home from work we'll eat and everybody will sing  only it's too late.   I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three,  two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything  but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a  runaway balloon, like a tiny  eyes to see it.