When I walk by anything that’s been spray-painted with that question, a pool of ice forms in the pit of my stomach. It’s a reminder of what I have to do later today, and it makes me queasy. Thankfully, I don’t have to think about it too much, because our new history teacher enters. He’s the only teacher we haven’t met yet; he was sick and missed the first few days of school. All the kids scramble to their seats.

He’s a pale, lanky, middle-aged guy with a receding hairline. He wears dark-rimmed glasses and, for some strange reason, has on red cowboy boots. He tells us his name is Mr. Gunderson and heads over to his desk. Then he makes an announcement and I roll my eyes so hard that I nearly injure myself.

“Instead of you students telling me your names, I’d like to read them off my list. I’m what they call a visual learner,” he says in a squeaky voice.

Naija looks over at me. She knows I dread roll call because teachers always mess up my name.

“He might get it right,” she whispers.

I shrug. “Yeah, maybe . . .”

But when he stumbles on Naija’s name, I know it’s a lost cause. He’s going to remix my name. But not the kind of dope underground remix that makes you dance harder than the original. Nah, this is the kind of remix that makes you wonder why the person didn’t just leave the original alone.

“First name starts with the letter A, followed by Y . . .” he says with uncertainty.

Please, God, let this white man pronounce my name right so no one laughs at me. Or at least get it close enough that I don’t have to spend the rest of class under my desk.

I try to help him out. “Mr. Gunderson, you don’t have to—”

“No, I can do this.”

He can’t.

Naija says, “Why don’t you just let her tell you?”

He replies, “I got it.”

He doesn’t.

By now the class is snickering and staring at me. Finally I shout, “Ayomide! My name is Ayomide.”

“One more time,” he says.

The entire class loudly breaks down my name in unison: “Ay-o-mide.”

“Got it.”

He doesn’t . . .

“Everyone just calls me Ayo: the letter I and the letter O together. Ayo.”

“Yeah, okay. I was close,” he says.

I roll my eyes and silently curse my mother for not naming me Lisa. What’s wrong with Lisa? It’s short. It’s uncomplicated. And it fits nicely on a mug.

I’m grateful when he starts to move on to the next name. I can feel the stress slipping from my body. But then . . .

“Your last name is Bosia?” he asks.

I nod slightly as dread seeps back into my body.

“Any relation to Rosalie Bosia? The founder of See Us?”