“Good to know you’ve at least learned my name this year, Henry,” she replies.

The entire room erupts in laughter, and tears of embarrassment pinch my eyes, but I can’t cry. My father says that crying is for babies. And babies get beat up.

“Enough!” Sister Marion snaps at the room. The students zip their lips, and all the sound in the room is sucked away, but everyone is looking at me, including Sister Marion. “We are not here to watch pretty little girls, Henry,” she reprimands. “Yes, I saw you staring at the new girl.”

Oh God, oh God. Please no. Please no. Don’t do this to me. I fight the urge to stand up and run away.

“We are not here for that,” Sister Marion adds. “We are here to honor God with our minds. Do you understand, young man?”

“Yes, Sister Marion,” I agree quickly.

“Then make our Father proud,” she says. “You will be the first to read a poem today.”

I quake inside. Oh no. “You’re going to talk to my father, Sister Marion?”

“Our Father, the Lord Jesus. You will talk to him now. Get up and follow me.” She turns on her heel and marches to the front of the room, waiting for me from behind her desk.

All eyes are on me and, afraid of losing my glasses, I shove them up my nose, my stupid hand trembling as I do. The kids saw. Of course, they saw. They’re all watching me, waiting to laugh at me again. Forcing my legs to work, I stand because I have no choice, curling my fingers into my sweaty palms.

Two steps forward. Three. I’m doing good. Yes. Four. I stumble on my unlaced shoe, falling forward, landing with a hard smack of my bare knees on the concrete floor. The room erupts into laughter once more and I imagine quicksand, like I saw in some movie the other day, sucking me under. That would be good, really good, right now. I straighten and my ears are ringing, the room fading in and out. I can barely make out the ruler hitting Sister Marion’s desk again. Every step I take shuffles heavily, like when I walk through the water in the river down by my house after Dad comes home, shouting and drinking his beer.

I’m almost to the front when Sister Marion loses patience with me like my dad does all the time. “Come now, son.” She grabs my hand and yanks me forward, placing me in front of the class and shoving a book into my hand. “Read,” she commands. “Give us the title and the author.”

I can feel my cheeks reddening, blowing up like apples the way they do when I’m upset. Next, the smear of red will spread to my neck and then I’ll look stupid. I need to get this over with now.