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“So who is he?” I demand after a moment.
“Who?”
“Jeremy.”
She runs a hand through her hair, shaking her head. “I-I don’t know. It’s just a song, baby. Lots of songs have names in them. Roxanne, Layla, Jack and Di?—”
“But I wanna know who Jeremy is.”
Twisting my lips together, I look up at the ceilin’, listenin’, mouthin’ to the words.
A bolt of lightning cracks loudly, shaking the walls. The room flashes.
I spin and I spin and sing and sing and?—
“You’ll put this on a CD for me, right Momma?”
“Yes, Mason.”
I don’t get in trouble, but I do get a warning.
Principal Gibson said she won’t call Momma this time, so long as I promise not to do it again. That if I see bullying, I should get a teacher and let the grown-ups handle it.
“Violence doesn’t solve anything, Mr. Wyatt.”
I wanted to tell her it’s weird she calls me that, but instead I just nodded and promised her what she needed to hear, and then she sent me on my way.
Now I’m not only starting my first day of first grade a whole week into the year at a new school, but I have to walk into homeroom after class already started.
I wish I still had my music. Principal Gibson made me put it in my bag, headphones and everything.
An aide walks me down the hall and knocks when we reach the door to my classroom.
A lady answers. She’s old, older than Mrs. Linda. She smiles down at me and says, “Well, who do we have here?”
The lady who walked me down hands her a slip of paper, introducing me, and they talk a bit, but I don’t pay them any attention.
That twisty feeling has come back, and my neck feels sticky and itchy. I squeeze the straps around my backpack and peek at the heads turned my way from behind the teacher.
Mrs. Chase, I remember Principal Gibson telling me. That’s my teacher this year.
I’m nudged inside the classroom, and the door closes behind me. A hand on my shoulder guides me toward the front of the room, and my eyes widen, my throat growing all tight.
It feels like my skin is buzzing.
“Class, before we continue, let’s give a warm welcome to our new student. Would you like to introduce yourself? Maybe tell everyone where you’re from.”
I gulp and meet the gazes of a couple students.
Despite knowing he’s not here—I saw which classroom he went into—I can’t help but search for Jeremy, wishing he was here. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so alone with all these strangers.
“Hi, um, I’m Mason,” I mutter. I duck my head, and twist the straps of my backpack, rocking back on my heels. “I moved here from New York.”
“New York City?” a girl asks, calling out excitedly, and I shake my head, flicking my eyes up to search the room.
“No,” I answer, stopping on a girl with long, messy brown hair, and a gap-toothed grin. She sits in the back corner, next to the window. I know it was her who asked, because she meets my gaze and smiles wider. “Buffalo,” I tell her.
She slumps like maybe that was the wrong answer—except it’s not—and my eyes drift to the boy next to her who’s shaking his head. His black head of hair is tipped forward as he doodles something on the paper in front of him, making it so I can’t see his face. He’s the only one not staring up at the front of the room. At me.
