I take a deep breath, slide my phone into my pocket, and head in her direction. The kids’ chatter fades as I approach, and I feel their eyes glom on to me. In some ways, I can imagine how I might appear to others. I’m different, a freak to some. I don’t blame teens—or adults, for that matter—for not knowing how to interact with me. It must be difficult, I’m sure.

A few giggles come my way, but I lift my head and keep my teacher smile in place. I don’t know the faces that observe me, can feel the tiny bites of panic that come with being in a roomful of strangers.

When I get close to the girl, I slow, hesitate; she hasn’t looked up from her booklet, and I’m doubting my intentions. Thoughts dance in my head and make it hard to pin down what I was thinking a few minutes ago. Why did I come over here, anyway? Because the girl looked lonely—that’s right. But how can someone like me do anything more than embarrass her?

“What are you working on?” I say.

The girl looks up and I see that she wears cat-eye glasses, only the lenses are missing and the frames are taped in the middle like they’ve been broken in half. The whole effect is charming, if not a little bit sad.

“Oh, hi, Ms. Claire,” she says, and I try not to show my surprise that she knows my name. “I’m just working on my book about The Adventures of Uki, my mom.” She scrunches her nose, I think to move her glasses up the bridge. “Are you feeling better now?”

Giggles from behind me, and I turn to see a teenage girl with short sandy hair that’s shaved on both sides. She looks to be about thirteen or so.

“Hey, Ms. H.,” she says.

Another girl giggles beside her.

“You put your flyer back up,” the first teenage girl says. “And I still want lessons.”

My smile feels as blank as my brain. “Okay,” I say, hoping she’ll lay out more clues for me.

“So can I?”

The girl beside her giggles behind her hand, points to the community board on the wall.

INTERESTED IN BEGINNER GUITAR LESSONS?

CONTACT CLAIRE HINES, APARTMENT 1407

Huh, when did I do that? I roll my shoulders, not upset by the idea. It sounds fun. “My mother taught me,” I say. “But I’m not very good.”

The giggling girl squints her eyes. “If you suck, why are you giving lessons?”

It’s a fair question and one I have no answer to, but before I can respond, a girl’s voice pipes up from behind me.

“You’re a mean girl, Nina!” I turn to find the little girl in cat-eye glasses has risen to her feet, her eyes blazing.