Finally, the bell rings. Mrs. McIntosh saunters out, and Mr. Sandler strides in for English.

“So, kids,” he says. Everyone settles down right away. I notice Noam Cantor sitting up a bit straighter. Mr. Sandler holds up the attendance sheet. “You’re all here, yes? First day of school and all?”

I feel my spirits lift. Mr. Sandler has a reputation for being the best teacher in the middle school. And English is my best subject. “All right, let’s forget this, then.” He hands the attendance clipboard to shy Rivkie Feuerstein, sitting in the center of the front row, and tells her to tick off everyone’s names. Her eyes get even bigger when he gives her a pen from behind his ear. Everyone laughs.

“Okay, great. That’s out of the way. Now let’s talk about this year.” He holds his hand over his eyes like he’s the captain of a ship, staring off into the distance. He swivels to scan the classroom. I look around: I’m definitely not the only one who is holding their breath in anticipation.

“So, sixth grade. It’s a big year. You’re all going to grow up a lot by June. Trust me. Most of it is not going to be in ways that will have anything to do with me teaching you about the English language and its literature. But”—he raps his hand against Rivkie’s desk and she jumps—“in case you’re curious, we are going to learn poetry, we are going to learn grammar, we are going to learn about heroes and how ordinary people can do extraordinary things. We—actually, you—are going to write a speech and perform it in front of your whole class. Maybe in front of the whole school.”

I realize I am still holding my breath, hanging on his words. I love English. And I can already tell I’m going to love having Mr. Sandler as my teacher.

“All right,” Mr. Sandler says. “Now, everyone make yourself a name card and put it on your desk for the first few days so I know who’s giving me the good answers.” He hands out white card stock to be passed back along the lines of desks. “Think about how you present yourselves. And remember, it’s always good to be creative.”

Everyone gets busy. I use my new highlighters to draw some flowers around my name. As I color, I think about the fact that I will have to write and present two speeches this year—one for English and one for my bat mitzvah. I stop coloring and see that my flowers look like cabbages. I turn around to check what Tali’s doing. She’s drawn a curlicue border with tulips and roses filling the space around her name. I fold my card in half so it sits on my desk like Mr. Sandler showed us and lean over to see if Honey’s finished yet. Then my eyes bug out of their sockets.

In bold black marker, Honey has written her name. But she hasn’t written Honey.