1997. Fifth grade. New kid: me. Old enough to know Leo didn’t do it for me, too young to see the film. Young enough to be scandalized by rumors of boobs on the big screen, old enough to know, when asked why I hadn’t seen Titanic, that I should cite disinterest instead of parental restriction. Young enough to be proud of my favorite ring, tortoiseshell, handmade gift from an island friend. Old enough to understand social mortification when a classmate asked to see the ring I wore on my middle finger and I raised it, just the one finger, to show. Too sheltered to recognize the word this accidental gesture signified, but just the right age, in that moment, to understand that my life on a remote South Pacific island had, perhaps permanently, othered me from my American peers. Not quite old enough to foresee how I would carry back to that beloved island this newfound otherness, sunk as deep into my self as a sapphire necklace tossed into the ocean’s heart. That, just as Celine promised—near, far, wherever you are—it would go on and on.