She stops outside a gray door, with a bulletin board next to it displaying a giant paper Alexander Hamilton and cheesy wordplay. Want to be in the room where it happens? Come on in! I’m guessing Mr. Keating teaches History or AP Gov. Or both. Grace knocks twice in quick succession and opens the door. She marches over to Mr. Keating, a surprise in tweed. Not the tweed part, but that he’s young—late twenties? Also handsome, in a goofy kind of way, and Black.

He offers Grace a nod, who gives my arm a reassuring squeeze as she passes.

“Miss Ellis, you can have a seat there.” Mr. Keating points to an empty desk in the second row, and I follow directions, tucking my head down to avoid meeting anyone’s eye. The morning announcements are being broadcast from a flat-screen TV affixed to the right of the board. Two fresh-faced and too-attractive teens flash blinding-white teeth while reading the news of the day stiffly from a teleprompter. The cafeteria lunch special is Swedish meatballs. French Club is canceled this afternoon. The homecoming-theme vote is tomorrow.

They start to wrap up, and I’m thinking I’ve gotten away scot-free without the teacher making me—

Mr. Keating locks eyes with me as the screen goes to black. “Miss Ellis, please introduce yourself! And Miss Morrow will help you navigate your classes. Wave, Amber?”

I catch the reluctant wave of a petite blonde shuffling intensely through pastel index cards. Now I have to perform for the crowd. I’m keenly aware everything I say will probably make it through the school grapevine by lunch. New-kid alert. Transferring in as a senior, no less.

“I’m Cecelia Ellis,” I start, “I just moved here from Los Angeles.” And I stop. The next part is tricky. Do I mention my famous grandmother? I probably can’t not—they’ll find out. And then they’ll want to know why I live with her. There are only two real reasons someone like me would move in with their granny: unfit mom or dead mom. I’ve had to tell a few people that my mom died. No matter how you phrase it, it’s an atomic bomb: The physical recoil. Eyes widening. Sympathy pouring from mouths, even though their bodies clearly display their revulsion. Talking about death reminds other people of their mortality.

Screw it.