“Aw, geez.” She scrunches her nose. “Sorry. Nina says you don’t remember anything, Tasha says you can remember some things but mostly not much, and Ms. Kiko tells them to hush ’cause she says you’re an amazing person who’s been through lots.” The girl pushes her lips out, tilts her head to the side like she’s studying me. “I think probably that Ms. Kiko is right, and besides Nina and Tasha are teenagers, so they can be mean for no reason. You know?”

My jaw hinges open at the girl’s blatant honesty, and I try not to dwell on the fact that teenagers are talking about me at all. But the effort loosens my hold on this conversation, and I search my brain for something to say that relates to this little girl. Ms. Kiko. She’s a teacher at the school here in Whittier. I know this is a fact because I taught with her briefly from before. “Are you in fourth grade?”

“Yep, me and six others. It’s weird here, you know. Real different from my other school.”

More information I can use. “So you’re new here?”

The girl’s eyes grow round. “Wow, yeah! I knew Nina was wrong; you do remember some things. We moved here on September 4, and I remember that date ’cause it’s National Wildlife Day. Did you know that?”

I shake my head.

“I do ’cause I have a little flippity calendar that says what’s special about the days.” Her voice turns serious. “Animals are important on September 4, and I love animals so that’s how I remembered it.” She seems to be waiting for me to say something, and when I don’t she gives an adult sigh and picks up a purple backpack from beside the kitchen table. She pulls out a piece of paper. “I think you probably forgot why I came up here to see you.” She hands me the paper, which is crumpled like it had once been a paper ball.

It’s a flyer with a picture of a guitar, the kind I could find in clip art, and a few typed sentences.

INTERESTED IN BEGINNER GUITAR LESSONS?

CONTACT CLAIRE HINES, APARTMENT 1407

“I’m interested,” the girl says. “And my name is Maree, like Mary with a y but with two e’s like in Anne of Green Gables.”

I stare at the flyer, biting my lip. The paper is familiar, thicker than regular copy paper, and cream instead of white. I look at my printer, and the skin on my forehead eases with relief because the same paper fills the feeder tray. I tap the flyer. So this is from me. But what would put this idea into my head? I can’t teach anymore.