He turned to face the chalkboard and wrote, in big letters, PETE SHERMAN, then turned back to us.

“That’s my name,” he said, gesturing at the board. “I’m Pete. I’ve been Pete for a very long time, but I was called something else. And I told you to call me something else. And now, if you can, I’d love it if you called me this. It’s new to you, but not to me. If you’d like, you can call me Mr. Sherman. But that’s really how I see my father, so if Pete is cool with you, it’d be great.”

The room was totally quiet. I knew some people were looking at me, that they’d seen my video or heard about it and now were putting two and two together about who it was about. Then someone started clapping. I heard the chair, just behind me to my right, screech as the person clapping—Dee—stood up. I looked over at her, locked eyes, and looked down, my whole body thrumming. But then, within seconds, Matthew and other quiet kids I’d never really noticed stood up. And then more people. Finally almost everyone else joined in, and I looked at Dee again and exchanged a small smile. I stood, shakily, clapping. A few kids stayed seated, raising eyebrows and rolling their eyes and exchanging looks, arms against their chests, looking around like WTF, but most of the class was applauding.

Someone whistled and boomed, “Yeah, Pete!”

“All right, all right. Sit down.” Pete beamed at us, waving us back to our seats. “Thank you. You folks are great. I know that you’ll have lots of questions. Yes, I’ll be using the gender-neutral single-person staff bathroom, and no, I won’t be saying any more on that topic.” He laughed, and others did too. “I’m sure some of your parents will have lots of questions. I’m happy to hear them. Later. But for now, we are here in Media Studies! So, without further ado, let’s get back into the Hero’s Quest stuff.”

That day, and since, I have felt Dee there, buzzing like a fly, in my periphery. I see her smoking outside, listening to something on her earphones, ignoring everyone else, and she always knows when I’m looking. Her eyes will lazily find mine and she’ll wink. That girl. She is nothing like me. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks. A lone wolf, for the most part, although sometimes I see her talking to other people who are on the edge, other outcasts. I never see her with my former-friends-turned- current-tormentors. Did they excommunicate her as well?

And does she want to be my friend? I can’t trust it. I look at the mystery text. I don’t respond.