Ms. Silverthorn tries to suppress a smile, one eyebrow arching in disbelief. “In that …?”

Apparently, she doesn’t love my new Chess King bomber, which I have paired with a cherry red popped-collar polo and jeans I added safety pins to. Or maybe the bandana I have tied around one ankle is too much? I think I look super cute!

“What? It’s all from your time!”

She laughs. “One: Try not to say things like that too loudly. Two: Did you see anyone dressed like Michael Jackson in English class?”

“It’s too late. They’ve all seen it now.” I know I’m pouting. “I’ll make it my brand. I’ll say it’s a Connecticut thing.”

For oh so many reasons, I don’t mention my plan for Chaz. I really just want to find out if she’s discovered her version of a DeLorean to zip me back to the 2020s.

“Did you figure out how to get me back? Like, a portal or a rift or some celestial whatever?”

She just looks at the clock and writes out my pass. “I’ll keep you posted. But for now … chemistry.”

Gordo isn’t in class. Maybe he’s sick. I would love that because I’m not digging running into him. Some kids who grow up missing a parent spend their lives wondering about them, trying to fill the gap. I just don’t. My whole life, I’ve had Mom, and she’s been enough, really and truly. It makes me furious when people diss single parents. I can recite a roster of messed-up kids with two parents. So maybe Gordo was my mother’s grief, but he isn’t mine. I can live without him in any time, but I’m glad I have her. (Not that she could tell when I was trash-talking her to her face on Monday.)