I never in a million years thought of that.

Sapphire juts out her chin. “I don’t care, though. Nobody messes with Fire.”

Right around the corner—just a hop, skip, and a jump from the middle school—is Olympia Elementary.

For half a second I think about not getting off. I don’t want kids knowing I live in a shelter.

Sapphire nudges me with a sharp elbow. “Come on, Just Piper.”

I take a deep breath and line up behind her. Her shoulders are thrown back and her head is held high. The truth of it is, I wish some of that self-confidence would rub off on me.

As if reading my thoughts, she looks back at me, a fierce light in her eyes. “Don’t you let nobody tell you who you are because of where you live.”

I square my shoulders and hold my head up too. I follow her down the steps and into the crowds. I hear Mama’s voice say, “Act like you know where you’re going.” The problem is, I don’t. Fire stops and says, “I’ll show you where the office is. Mrs. Graham will get you all set up. She’s real nice.” I take a deep breath and follow Fire into my new school.

My new teacher, Mr. Koehler, waves me into the classroom. He takes the paper from Mrs. Graham, reads it over, and nods. Kids bump into me and past me getting into their seats. I can’t get over how many kids are in this one classroom! As many as the whole fifth grade in my old school, I bet.

The bell rings. Mr. Koehler claps his hands. “Good morning,” he calls above the clatter of voices and desks. “We have a new student joining us today.”

My heart stops. What if he asks me to tell the class where I live? Where I’m from? My mouth goes dry as crackers.

“This is Piper Trudeau,” he says, smiling. “Let’s all make her feel welcome in our class.”

Mr. Koehler touches my shoulder. “Piper, why don’t you take that desk over by the window?”

I am so grateful I don’t have to tell them anything about who I am, I want to give Mr. Koehler a hug. You better believe he will be on my grateful list tonight.

I hurry back to the desk. I am so, so ready to be sitting in a school desk like any kid with a normal life.

I hear a snicker or two as I pass. I hear someone whisper, “Shelter kid.” My face burns. I slide into my chair and look down at my desk. How did they know?

At lunchtime, I stand in line with my tray and my school lunch ticket. It’s a different color than the tickets of kids in line ahead of me. I fold it up in my fist so no one can see it.