“I . . .” I’m at a loss for words. LDs and IEPs and Resource Rooms are not noisy-hallway conversation topics to talk about with someone who might not even be an actual friend yet. “I have a . . .” I rack my brain for an excuse. “A lesson,” I blurt out, pointing down the hall, which happens to be where not only the Resource Room is located, but where the music rooms are as well.

After all, there are a few kids in our class who are learning instruments for band and orchestra. They sometimes leave class for music lessons. Why couldn’t I be one of them too? I am getting lessons, just not in music. So maybe it’s not the worst kind of lie.

“Oh. Okay.” Macy pauses. “Well, see you, I guess,” she finally says, and gives me a small wave.

I wave back, but as I watch her walk away, there’s a pang of guilt knotting up around my throat. I swallow hard and call out, “See you!” but I don’t think she hears me.

The Resource Room is not the worst place to be—even if I don’t like the fact that I have to come here. There are beanbag chairs and a colorful rug in the center of the room. Lots of decorations everywhere, and posters on the walls that say things like PROGRESS, NOT PERFECTION! and MISTAKES ARE PROOF THAT YOU ARE TRYING and IF YOU THINK YOU CAN, YOU WILL.

“Sadie, Sadie, Sadie!” Mr. Patel calls when I enter the room, which is the way he greets me every time, like I’m on a game show. “Come on down!”

He waves his arms dramatically, gesturing for me to take a seat.

I sit at the table, and he flops a manila file folder down. On the tab, it reads MITCHELL-ROSEN, SADIE (5TH GRADE).

“Let’s see what we have here,” Mr. Patel mutters, flipping through the pages in the folder. He is always chewing cinnamon gum, and secretly offers me a piece—even though gum chewing is against school rules.

“I have your quiz from last week,” he says, holding a piece of paper but not letting me see the grade. “I thought we could go over some of the problems again together.”

“The ones I got wrong, you mean.”

Mr. Patel gives me a look—he doesn’t like when I say things about bad grades or feeling stupid—and corrects me, “The ones that were more difficult for you is what I meant.”

He covers the test with another paper, so that I can only see one problem at a time—a trick I always seem to forget when I’m on my own.