Happily for me, she gets down to business right away, and even happier, this class is running about ten days behind my class, so I don’t have to pay close attention. While other kids are writing stuff about Twain in their notebooks (like literal paper ones), I am making a list of things I will need. Last night, we ran to a JCPenney (it was huge and busy, which was, honestly, so confusing) for a couple of basics to get me through the rest of this week. So basic: I have three polo shirts, two pairs of jeans, and a pair of sneakers that the pimply clerk swore are made out of the same stuff as the nose of the space shuttle. My underwear resembles granny panties, which I guess are a thing, but not a me thing, and I feel weird having such ugliness close to my skin. (I am grateful only that this is a big era for mousse, so I can do my hair just how I like. My skin, on the other hand—let’s not go there.)

The ring of the period two bell is jarring to me. And a reminder that I need to get a watch. Like one on my wrist, which is so not me. Those boys who flex their watches? Gross. But I’m going to have to tell time somehow, and my iPhone battery is gonna last, like, ten more seconds. (That realization sparks another: I should probably keep this twenty-first century marvel out of sight entirely.)

My mom is in my next class, and I want to cry. She’s so young and so pretty, even with those crazy bangs. She wears blue eyeshadow and too much blush, and exudes a playfulness and joy that I’m not used to seeing. And her skin, my god. No wonder Gordo fell for her. Right now, he sits next to her, his leg heavily against hers. Based on the way both look in my direction, he’s talking about me, and whatever he’s saying, she’s not having it.

She comes over and introduces herself. “Maria Elena. Most people here call me Laney, ’cuz it’s easier.”

“How about Ma Elena?”

That’s what Abuelo and all the tías call my mom and it earns me a smile, but also a bit of puzzlement. “Is Ms. Silverthorn Spanish?”

“Oh, uh, no … I get it from my dad’s side.”

Unfortunately for me, this invites a stream of Spanish that I cannot keep up with, and I end up repeating “lo siento” over and over. She lets me off the hook. “It was worth a try.” And then leans closer. “My boyfriend says he thought you were a Townie, and he’s sorry.”