We went directly to the main office, where teachers and school administrators were sitting behind desks, performing different tasks to prepare for the school day. Papa stood quietly facing the desks, waiting for one of the administrators to look up. Finally, a man walked over to us.

Papa’s English was not nearly as fluid as the man’s was. Still, Papa managed to explain why we were there. In his quick-fire speech, the man asked about my vaccination and medical papers. (“Vaccination” and “medical” are similar words in Creole as in English.) When Papa handed him the papers, the man walked back to his desk and picked up a form. He filled in some of the form, then gave Papa the rest to finish.

The man called someone else over, an older woman. The woman looked down at the form and told us in Creole that I had been assigned to Class 8M5. Papa asked what room that was. She said she would take us.

My knees were shaking as we followed the woman through the hallway. At times, I fell behind Papa and the woman, my new backpack weighing me down.

There was a long buzz and suddenly it was mayhem, with students pouring into the halls, some running and knocking into one another as they climbed the staircase around us.

My main room, the homeroom, was on the fourth floor in a corner near the stairwell. The students were beginning to arrive, slipping into their seats as we approached the teacher’s desk. The woman from the main office introduced the homeroom teacher as Mr. Marius.

Mr. Marius was a young man, looking not much more mature than many of his students. The woman from the main office gave him my records. He looked them over, then said, “Bienvenue, Celiane.”

The class was full now and everyone was looking at me. While the lady from the main office was leaving, I tried to keep my back to the other students and concentrate on Mr. Marius.

Papa was telling him (too loudly for my taste) what a good student I had been in Beau Jour, how my teacher had always “appreciated” me, how I had often been first in my class.

I kept wishing Papa wasn’t saying those things. From the silence in the room, I could tell the others were listening, adding Papa’s words to their first impressions of me.

I had already decided that I was no longer going to try to outshine everyone in class and Papa was ruining my plans. Being the teacher’s favorite was no way to make friends.