Eventually, she turns back to the whiteboard and I take out my script, once again looking through for any lines that might need tweaking. There are still ten minutes before first period starts, and I plan to spend it doing what I do best.

My only distraction is the sunlight streaming through the second-floor window, almost too bright. I pull my hood up, shielding my eyes moderately, before I continue reading through the script.

I barely notice time passing by until the bell rings and Rosie slides into the seat beside me, dropping her binder with a loud thunk. I instantly look up, my hood falling down with the sudden movement.

“I thought you were running late,” she says, furrowing her brows at me. “We usually meet outside.”

I gesture to the pile of paper on my desk, ignoring the way my skin is prickling. “Sorry, I was just reworking some lines.”

Rosie nods, but there’s still a hint of a frown at the corner of her mouth. But then her eyes flicker behind me and she leans in, whispering, “Did you notice the new kid?”

“The new kid?” I repeat. We’re in AP Italian, and it’s the second semester. How can there be a new kid?

I turn around in my seat, trying to pick out which one of our classmates Rosie is talking about. I spot him in the back, sitting next to Grant. His face is turned away from us but his messy golden-blond hair is distinct enough that I know Rosie is right. He’s not from our class.

“Does Grant know him?” I ask, unable to resist leaning farther out of my seat to catch a better look at the stranger.

The boy in the seat behind me, Kevin, perks up in interest. “Grant knows the new kid?”

“I have no idea.” I wonder if Miss Turano would be upset if I launched something at Grant’s head to grab his attention.

I already know Rosie will nag me all period if we don’t find out more about the new kid. I’m willing to throw a paper ball if it saves me in the long run.

The girl sitting across from me diagonally is also eyeing the back of the room with raised eyebrows. In fact, everyone is more or less looking at the back of the room.

Maybe in a calculus or history class, it wouldn’t be as obvious, but in our class of seventeen, it’s easy to spot something amiss. Our class has had the same students and same teacher since freshmen year, as our school offers only one Italian course. This is highly unusual.

And then the blond boy faces forward, and a collective silence floods the room as we all see his face for the first time.

Or, for me, the second time.

Emmitt Ramos.

Emmitt Ramos is sitting in the back of my Italian classroom.