The bell finally rang, at which point our homeroom teacher, a tall woman with a blond bob and pearls, walked into the classroom, followed by a set of familiar faces: Tanner, the boy who had basically brought my opening number to a close in Greenville Square a day earlier, and what was clearly his crew. The four of them took their seats at the back of the class, which looked like they had almost been reserved for them.

The homeroom teacher clapped her hands. “Okay, class! Take your seats. It’s good to see you all back. Many familiar faces. And it looks like we have a new student with us, uh, Anne? Anne, can you stand up?”

Twenty sets of eyes trained on me as I slowly rose from my seat.

“Hi, I’m Anne,” I said, waving as I stood. “Uh. She/her. Not from LA.”

I had prepared more casual introductory material, including a brief summary of my three last schools, my three favorite albums, and an inspirational quote.

Apparently none of these were needed or desired.

I had just cracked my mouth open to talk when my new homeroom teacher made a clam-slamming-shut motion with her hand, followed by a “sit down” motion with her other hand.

I sat.

“Anne. My name is Mrs. Sherman,” she said, with the crispness of a snapped cracker, “and I will be your homeroom teacher. If you need any assistance, I’m sure there will be no shortage of students prepared to help the adopted daughter of our new school vice principal.”

It was like being pricked by an unexpected thorn. Why did she say I was adopted? Like, accurate but also kind of rude. Adopted daughter instead of just, you know, daughter? Kid?

I caught Berry’s glance like a butterfly net, her eyes wide with “Yes, Anne, this is going to happen. I am very sorry.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but then the bell rang.

And there ended the final (ish?) introduction of me to Greenville.

Of course, my introduction to Greenville was just getting started.

Berry continued her primer in Gym a few periods later, while we ran in circles like planets orbiting our gym teacher, Mrs. Harras, who took a moment to eye me and give me a curt handshake of introduction when I walked onto the field.

“Harras,” she said, holding out her hand. “Coach Harras. Physical education. I also coach girls soccer and tennis.”

“Anne,” I said, shaking with a firm grip that was not as firm as Harras’s. “I will be your student, but probably not on any teams. No offense.”

“Annie?” Harras looked momentarily interested.

“No, Anne. With an e.”

“Really?”

“Anne with an e?” I repeated. “It’s. . .my name?”

Harras sniffed. “I thought it was Annie.”

She was very clearly disappointed.