by V. Joshua Adams Gil Ribeiro I am waiting to be called as a witness for the prosecution in the trial of my upbringing. The courtroom fills up. There is the piano teacher, neck ropy with veins, the housekeeper who fell in the pool, the wax pâte of the smiling headmaster. There is the coach with his tightly curled beard and the coach with his clean shave and sunglasses. The priest moves somewhere in the back —  I catch sight of green and gold robes, smell his aftershave. Kids