In homeroom, the first thing we do is get our locker numbers. There are long rows of metal cupboards in the hallways, painted blue. Most of the kids have brought combination locks with them; and after the bell rings, they troop along to find their lockers and get set up. But I don’t have a lock, and anyway, I don’t really see the point. It’s just another reason to get lost.

My schedule is weird—classes seem to end at weird times, like 9:27. Then the bell rings and you have to find the next class. Just to get from one place to another you have to dodge all this traffic. I keep checking my schedule, then stuffing it back into my pocket, so the paper gets all crumpled up. Then I forget which pocket I put it in. It’s like that all morning. At the beginning of every class we say our names, but I can’t remember anybody. Teachers assign seats, but I know I’ll forget those, too. At least once you’re sitting down, it’s, like, okay . . . for the next half hour, I know I’m in the right place.

By lunchtime, I’m totally exhausted. Mom comes and finds me. She’s wearing a badge on her blouse now that says MRS. MICHAELS. There are picnic benches outside the cafeteria, in the shade of a big old pecan tree. Granma has packed lunches for both of us, and we walk outside.

I unwrap my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The pecan tree drops nuts and twigs and leaves onto the concrete, which has little pebbles in it, so bits of nuts and leaves get stuck in between. I keep looking at the ground.

Mom says, “I forgot how cold it gets in the air-conditioning. Tomorrow I’m definitely going to bring a sweater.”

A few kids stop by and say, “Hello, Mrs. Michaels.” It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone call her that since we left New York.

“I want you to meet my son, Ben,” she tells them. “He’s new here. He’s in the seventh grade. Keep an eye out for him, will you?”

Everybody has to pretend to be nice because I’m the teacher’s son, but really . . . I mean, nobody wants to talk to me.

When they’ve gone, I ask Mom: “How come people still call you Mrs. Michaels? That’s Dad’s name.”

“It’s still my name, too.”

“But it doesn’t make sense. I thought you wanted a divorce.”

Mom brushes crumbs off the picnic table. I can tell she’s thinking about what to say. “I don’t know what I want. But I’ve had this name for a long time now. You get used to it.”

“I don’t get it.”

Instead of answering, Mom stands up and smooths out her skirt. She takes a mirror from her purse and checks her makeup. In school, even though she tries to be nice to me, she’s kind of different—she’s not totally Mom, she’s also someone else. I can tell she’s nervous, too, or busy, or distracted.