I have a couple of speeches all made up and memorized. I always say my hobby is snorkeling. It’s the kind of hobby that could be normal where we used to live but is really hard to do here. And it’s not the kind of hobby that a lot of people have and then want to talk about. I’ve never met another kid who said, “Oh, you’re a snorkeler? Hey! Me too!”

Then I say we moved either because my dad got a new job or because my mom wants to be closer to her sister who is “quite ill.” I can do these introductions so well, even I half believe them.

“I have an announcement,” the teacher said. Told you.

And even though I’ve done The Introduction, like, a million times, I still get that feeling. I don’t understand why people call it “butterflies in your stomach.” Butterflies are happy and colorful and free, and this feeling is none of those things. This feeling is spiky and tricky, and it stings. I call it “yellow jackets in your stomach.”

But all she said was: “Time for lunch.”

Huh. I stood up and walked to where I thought the line would be. But the kids were still hanging around, like they were waiting for something.

“Okay,” the teacher finally said. “Alphabetical order by first name.”

I didn’t get it.

“And by the way,” she added, “our new friend’s name is Austin.”

A short girl with big glasses came right up to me. She showed me a smile all railroad-tracked with braces and stuck out her hand to shake mine. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Bertie.”

I didn’t say anything. I just shook her hand and nodded a little. I mean, I didn’t really shake her hand—more like I squeezed her fingers for a second.

“You’re first,” Bertie said. “Because you’re A and I’m B. Except for Bodhi, but he’s B-O.” She slapped her palm to her forehead and giggled. “I mean, he’s not B.O. His name starts with B-O and mine starts with B-E, and E comes before O, but you knew that already.”

I scooted around her to get to the front of the line. It was kind of cool to be the kid standing in the doorway with a view into the hall. This school had very shiny floors.

“My real name is Beatrice.” Bertie was still right behind me. “But I don’t like being called Bea because I don’t like bees. I’m not allergic or anything. I just don’t like them.”

Bertie’s words were buzzy like bees, but not like yellow jackets in your stomach. They were more like those puffy bumblebees just flying around, looking for a flower or something.

“Do you have any nicknames?”

I shook my head no.