Rachel wakes up on her eleventh birthday feeling as if she’s still ten—and nine, and eight, and all the ages that came before. At school, what should be a happy day turns gloomy when the teacher insists that an ugly, unclaimed sweater belongs to Rachel. Mrs. Price puts the sweater in an embarrassing pile on Rachel’s desk. Worse yet, she makes Rachel put the sweater on. It smells bad, it itches, it is full of germs, and Rachel, feeling all her years of childhood rattling around inside her, cries in front of the whole class. The classmate who is the real owner of the sweater finally claims it, while Rachel longs for the day to end. (McDougal Littell The Language of Literature, 2002)