My next class was English, which is normally my favorite class. Because what is better than a class that asks you to read a thing and then give your opinion about it? Even if you don’t like the thing you’re reading, at least you get to give your thoughts on it later, and, if you’re a super nerd, teachers usually give in and let you give an opinion on whatever else you happen to be reading.

Which is why I’ve given at least three book reports over the years on books about disco.

This teacher was a tall and reedy man with a smooth face and a thumb-size ponytail of curly hair at the back of his head. He smiled and nodded as I walked into the classroom, which was the first hint of any kind of warm welcome I’d gotten from any teacher. I nodded back and mentally told him that I 100 percent approved of his deliciously russet-orange vest with the wide shirt collar winged over top. Even if it was paired with a curious light blue denim.

A choice. A bold choice, really.

I could have sworn I got a little vibe back on my ensemble, but it was late in the day and I was kind of desperate for some acknowledgment, so I could have been projecting.

We were starting the semester with poetry, which was clear from the cursive message on the board.

Mr. Davidson. English.
Take out your poetry intro books.
Now.

“Hello, hello,” Mr. Davidson trilled, fanning his hand out over the class. “Sit, sit, sit.”

He picked up a list from his desk, his lips moving slightly as he ran down what I assumed was an attendance sheet. Mr. Davidson preferred the arena style of desk arrangement. I sat at the top side of the O, which unfortunately meant I was across from Tanner and crew.

“You must be Anne.” Davidson looked up from the list with a smile. “Welcome. We’re of course very happy to have your mother as our new vice principal, and we look forward to your contribution to our school.”

“Thanks!”

“Maybe you could start by telling us what you read this summer,” Mr. Davidson said. “So we can get a little sense of your literary tastes?”

“Um. I read a biography of the singer Sylvester and a bunch of graphic novels.”

Mr. Davidson nodded. “Excellent. Well, we’ll look forward to hearing your thoughts on our reading list, Anne.”

“Cool.” I grinned.

“Cool,” someone on my left mimicked.

Someone else stifled a giggle.

Mr. Davidson straightened. “All right. Let’s get out your textbooks.”

I looked up to see Sarah Pye staring back at me, her little cherry-red ponytails sticking out either side of her head, each tied with a green bow. “Coooool,” she mouthed exaggeratedly.