Other kids are noticing me now. I hold my breath a little, but Mom isn’t in my class. Naturally, because I don’t want him to be, Gordo is. (Note: There is no universe in which I’m calling him Dad.) He’s whispering to some buddies about me, and it’s everything I can do not to blow him a kiss, which is how I’d piss off cavemen types in my day (and, um, guys who didn’t spawn me). Some of the others give me welcoming (if slightly confused) smiles, and this white girl in front of me turns around to introduce herself. Strawberry-blonde hair frames a face dotted with amazing freckles, the kind fashionistas were tattooing on in 2018. “You picked a perfect time to start First Secondary—it’s almost over!”

Ms. Silverthorn does her thing, a move that is so familiar to me I become homesick for my real life. She always begins class with a clap clap, her hands somehow perfectly cupped to make the sound ring out. It is never one clap, never three. But it’s always enough: even this young, she has a natural presence that makes you listen, paired with a warmth that makes you want to.

“Today, class, as you can see, we have a new arrival.” Now, all heads turn, and I try to smile. (Too late, I realize, I am sitting with my legs crossed, which is very me but is true of no other boy in class.) She asks me to introduce myself, and I stick with the story I told Frohmeyer: I’m Luis Silverthorn, her nephew, and, um, my mom’s sick. She shoots me a look that clearly means “don’t say more than you need,” but I can’t help myself. I say I’m from Connecticut, just as a little in-joke for her and me. (I love an in-joke.)