Mrs. Rutherford turns to look at her computer. “And it looks like Lily—”

“Ellie,” I say.

“Ellie, don’t interrupt,” Mom says.

Mrs. Rutherford turns to me. “Ellie, is it? Well then, I’ll just put a note in your file.”

Mom opens her mouth like she’d like to add a good many more notes to my file, but Mrs. Rutherford is talking again and ignores the folder in Mom’s lap.

“Okay, Ellie. I’ve got you in homeroom with Mrs. Tilly, and then you’ll travel with the B group through class changes.”

Mom jumps at that. “Yes, how do you plan to handle class changes?”

“What do you mean, ‘handle’?”

“I mean, who will be her aide? Who will be there for bathroom assistance, and what is your plan for physical education? Is the cafeteria handicapped accessible? Are all classrooms on the ground floor, or will Ellie need to take the elevator? Is there an elevator?”

Whoa. Mom needs a little less coffee.

Mrs. Rutherford looks at her over her glasses.

Mom looks at Mrs. Rutherford over the top of her file.

I see my chance and back out of the room slowly. Neither one of them notices.

I could have told Mom after one trip down the hallway that the school is only one story. It’s that small and I’m glad. I hated having to be one of three kids waiting for the elevator. It was always me and some soccer player on crutches.

I roll along, peering into classrooms if there’s no teacher there. The bulletin boards in the hallway are already decorated for the Cupid’s Arrow Valentine’s Dance. I managed to skip my first-ever dance this year. It was part of the Fall Festival, to raise money for new locker rooms. As if I care about the locker rooms. I stayed home and made a peanut butter cheesecake instead.

At the farthest end of the hallway (there is only one), I turn right and find myself in the gym. And the smell hits me. Floor polish and sweat. Every gym in every school across America smells the same.

I’m about to back out when I hear the squeak of tennis shoes and freeze. Across the basketball court, a man in a red tracksuit is stacking wrestling mats. He sees me, straightens, and then jogs over.

“Lily, correct? I’m Hutch, Coach Hutch.” He holds out a hand, but he doesn’t squat down next to me, which I appreciate. We shake, and I’m glad, and a little surprised, that his hand isn’t sweaty.

“How do you already know who I am?”

“Principal Rutherford wanted to let all of us, those who will be your teachers, know that we’d have a new student tomorrow.”

Yeah, I bet that’s all she said. And I bet they always have a meeting when a new student comes to school.