The next day at school, Evelyn and I were standing beside the pencil sharpener, which was bolted to the window ledge. I turned the handle hard and listened to the sound it made as it chewed the outer edge of my pencil. When I looked up, I saw a woman talking to Mrs. Ficsh. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she was pointing at me and then Mrs. Ficsh called me to her desk.

“Franny, this is Mrs. Skoll. She wants to speak with you.”

S-K-O-L-L. Like skull. She moved so quickly down the hallway that I had to skip to keep up with her. She brought me into her office, which was small and cluttered with papers. Hanging from the only exposed wall was a poster of a little boy holding a baseball glove that read, “Smiles are Catchy.” The tape had come off one of the corners, which curled over the word “catchy.”

“Please sit.” She moved a stack of papers piled on a chair. It was warm in her office, but I crossed my arms across my chest and cupped my elbows like I was cold.

“How are you, Frances?”

“It’s Franny,” I whispered.

She was flipping through papers, but then she stopped. “I understand that you are living with a family friend? Leah Dugan?”

I nodded.

“Things going okay?” When she spoke, she looked down at my shoes so I looked down, too.

I nodded again.

“That’s good.” She scribbled something on a piece of paper and when I squinted I could see that her writing was curly and big. “Is there anything you would like to talk to me about?”

I rubbed the rounds of my elbows.

“I know this has been a difficult transition for you. I just want to make sure you are doing okay and see if there is anything we can do to support you.” Her skin was pockmarked and when she smiled, her face reminded me of a walnut shell.

I shook my head.

“Change can be hard and Ms. Dugan doesn’t know you the way your mother did.”

I brought my hands down from my elbows and put them in my lap. The movies. The bathroom. The car ride home. Leah was why I was here. Skull was staring at me, waiting for a response, but I didn’t know what to say. She clicked the top of her pen on and off like she was sending me a message in Morse code. I looked up at the poster, at the boy with his catcher’s mitt, and I swallowed hard to get rid of the lump that was forming in my throat. My face turned red and then my eyes filled with the kind of tears that feel hot when they touch your skin.

“It’s okay, dear.” She pulled open her desk drawer and handed me a tissue.