As he wrangled into the chair, his belly shifted so far upwards that his belt looked as if it was splitting him in two. I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t, and my classmates were equally reserved.

“Susan Abrams?”

“Here.”

“Tonya Bonitelli?”

“Here.”

“Michael Browning?”

“Here.”

That was how it went that first morning. That was my introduction to Mr. West’s seventh-grade class. I sat in that room unknown, ignored, and fated into the hands of this tyrant. As each stranger’s name was read off his list, my heart sank deeper. By the end of roll call, I understood how much I really hated my mother.

And as the weeks went by, it did not get any better.

The hours spent at school passed like days. Each minute felt as futile as trying to put back together the shell of a cracked egg. I became practiced at looking like I was in one place, when really I was somewhere very different. With Mr. West, however, there was little hope of entering the kind of daydream that was worth slipping off into.

“The Gift of the Magi. I expect that you have all read it. Please open your notebooks.”

There was a shuffle of books and then quiet as everyone spread their things onto their desks. The unspoken rule was that the student with the highest stack of papers could avoid the eye of Wicked West as he had come to be called. I read the story the night before in my new bedroom, which had a slanted roof. I pushed my bed into a corner of the eave so that when I stretched my arms up, I could touch the ceiling. It made me feel really big and really small at the same time. It was the first time I could remember having a bedroom to myself and I couldn’t help but enjoy the solitude that came along with it.

“Miss Wolley, can you answer the question?”

Hearing his voice forced my breath to quicken and I hoped I didn’t look like I was panting. Quickly and with as little inflection as possible, I responded. “Could you repeat the question?”

“Certainly, Miss Wolley, but perhaps in the future you could try and stay with us so that I need not waste my or the class’s time on useless repetition.”

There was scattered nervous laughter in the middle section of the room. It came from the kids who were worried that sitting in the front would put them face-to-face with the enemy and sitting in the back would identify them as defiant. I was proud that at least I had taken a stand when it came to choosing my seat. Last row, third in from the window.

“I would like to know, Miss Wolley, how you define the concept of irony?”

“It’s when you expect one thing and get another.”

“Simple, but mildly interesting. Can you give the class an example of irony?”