He says this as if it’s so obvious that her (presumed) chastity trumps our (falsified) blood relations. She doesn’t argue, so I swallow hard and play along. “Right. Um, thanks.” And then to show contrition, I add, “Sir.”

Frohmeyer looks at me a moment, trying to decide if I’m sincere or trouble, then turns back to Ms. Silverthorn. “The dean will set him up for now. Ernie Gale could use a roommate.”

As he says this, he chuckles, and I see her trying hard not to respond, as a distant alarm bell rings in my brain.

“Now get outta here.” We all rise at once, and Ms. Silverthorn thanks him again before he shuts the door behind us.

We’re in the hallway, which is beginning to fill with students in what I think of as vintage clothing, and, of course, they just think of it as clothes. Her first words are reassurances. “You’ll be fine in the dorm.” Having never lived with anyone but Mom, I’m not convinced, and my teacher can see this. “I hate to say it, but I agree—I met you less than twenty-four hours ago, no matter how well we know each other when I’m an old lady. I’m not ready to be your house mother.”

She indicates my notebook. “You have the class schedule? And a map of the building?”

I nod, feeling lightheaded. Try not to panic. “You’re my first period, right?”

“Yes. Seems like a good day to start Connecticut Yankee.” I think she wants to hug me. I know I want to hug her. But neither is going to happen, and the first bell rings. Oh my god, oh my god.

“Welcome to First Secondary,” she says with a hopeful smile and leaves me to the ’80s.

I know the floor plan of the school—I mean, it’s my school—so I don’t really need to stare at the map to find my way, but it’s very calming to just focus on a piece of 8 ½" x 11" paper instead of, say, the enormity of my actual situation.

“Sorry!” A bellowing apology registers about a half-second before I am face-down on the floor. Pale hands are lifting me to my feet, and my thoughts are jumbled before a skinny white kid with red cheeks and a deeply concerned expression fill my view. “I didn’t see you! I was in the ninth inning!” He thrusts at me what appears to be a calculator topped with a baseball diamond. I have no clue what he wants me to do with it, and I push it back roughly.

“Earth to clueless: you’re actually in a hallway where other people are walking!” He looks shocked and, honestly, I kind of am, too, but it’s been a stressful twenty-four hours. Poor kid kind of runs away before I can figure out why he seems familiar.