Some teacher smooths out my schedule, squints at it and points toward my homeroom. I find the classroom and slip into an open seat along the back row. I’m late, but a couple kids walk in after me, so I guess it’s no big deal.
I’m still thinking about what happened to Tim and how I was a giant chicken when the homeroom teacher calls roll. Of course, I’m lost in my thoughts and the teacher has to say my name twice. My stupid, make-fun-able name is awful enough the first time.
Some girl a couple rows ahead of me leans toward another girl and giggles. “Norbert Dorfman? That’s an unfortunate name.”
I slink way down in my seat—which is awkward because I’m freakishly tall. I realize this roll-call humiliation will be repeated in every class.
My next class is Language Arts. I find it right away and take a seat in the back. Tim walks into the class, and my immediate response is happiness, but it’s replaced by guilt. I walked away when those guys were hassling him in the hallway. What kind of person does that? The kind of person who wants to survive eighth grade.
When Tim looks up the rows and his blue eyes settle on mine, I duck my head, because what I did—or more accurately, what I didn’t do—was cowardly. I would have wanted someone to stick up for me if I were in that situation. I shouldn’t have ducked my head, though, because I realize too late that Tim gave me a friendly wave, and now too much time has passed to wave back without it being awkward.
I ache for my friend Phineas, so I wouldn’t feel lonely, but I know that’s stupid and crazy.
Mr. Creighton tells us about his teaching career and his dogs and his nerdy love of books. I like him.
But then he calls roll. Why didn’t he do it at the beginning of class like other teachers do? I got all comfortable with his stories, then this.
When he says, “Norbert Dorfman,” I’m paying attention and raise my hand fast, so he can go on to the next name. Not fast enough, apparently. Someone nearby whispers, “Norbert Dorfman. Seriously?”
I startle when the kid beside me taps my elbow. He slips a folded piece of paper into my hand. I wonder if it’s for someone else and I’m supposed to pass it along, but the kid signals that it’s meant for me.
Me?
That’s when worry floods my mind. I’m afraid someone’s written something mean about my name or…maybe it’s a note about someone threatening to fight the new kid after school or…
Under my desk, I unfold the paper and glance down while Mr. Creighton writes a funny quote on the board about a book and a dog. I don’t care about the quote; I care about the note.
There are two words on it that tell me the kid who wrote it is a better person than I am.
Two words (and a punctuation mark) that make me feel happy for the first time since I walked into Gator Lake Middle School.
Hi, Dunkin!
What’s In a Name?
I’m happy to see Dunkin in my class. I hope he didn’t stick around to witness what those idiots said to me before homeroom. I don’t want anything to mess up my chance to be friends with him.
Someone makes fun of Dunkin’s real name when roll is called, so I slip him a note with his nickname. I’m so glad to see it makes him smile.
I hate having to answer to Timothy McGrother, even though every fiber of my being wants to shout: I’m Lily Jo McGrother!
When I raise my hand, Mr. Creighton looks at me—really looks at me—like he’s trying to get to know who I am. He seems like someone who doesn’t need to put people into certain boxes to feel more comfortable with the world. I have a feeling Mr. Creighton would like me just fine as Lily.
Where I Don’t Belong
We don’t have to change into PE clothes because it’s the first day, but the coaches give tours of the locker rooms, like they did at the start of sixth and seventh grade. And they go over the same rules they give us every year, about being prepared and about respecting other people and their property. Yeah, right!
The sixth graders look small and terrified. I feel sorry for them, but am glad not to be in their shoes. It’s hard enough being an eighth grader, especially with the three Neanderthals from this morning in my class. They still make me feel small and terrified.
There’s nothing exciting in the locker room for Coach Ochoa to show us—just old benches in front of the lockers, in which people have carved their initials, their girlfriends’ initials and other things that make my cheeks warm. There are already a couple wads of toilet paper stuck to the ceiling. And urinals with cakes in them, like the one that Joey Reese thought was hilarious to put in Matthew Greene’s locker last year.
I’m relieved when the tour and lecture are over and we’re standing in the gym, outside the locker room.
Coach Ochoa drones on about changing quickly and not being late for class. I tune him out and watch Coach Outlaw walk the girls into the locker room on the other side of the gym. Dare’s in that group, and I should be, too.
