Page 9 of My Own Kind of Person

“Good morning, Paumanok East!” I call over the loudspeaker. “Welcome back to another year. I hope you enjoyed the beach and the sun. I very much enjoyed staying indoors.”

Mrs. Farmer, the main office lady with dyed-brown-bordering-on-purple hair, gives a silent belly laugh. I pretend her appreciation is representative of the two thousand students almost certainly not listening right now. I announce the details for the year’s first football game and do the pledge of allegiance, my voice echoing off the lockers. I finish with the quote the announcements have ended with forever: “Make it a great day, or not. The choice is yours.”

Mrs. Farmer applauds. “Encore!”

“Should I pop back on and give the weather?”

She points at me. “Just don’t forget us little guys when you’re famous!”

I do a smile.

When Mom and I moved back to this district two years ago, nobody knew who I’d been at my other schools. Doing stand-up at the talent show, I was the most palatable version of myself, the Sean I’d learned that people like. It’s a much preferable existence to public breakdowns and zero friends.

Homeroom isn’t over yet, so I lean against the PA system and check to see if I missed a message from Christy. I didn’t. We’ve talked a little since the other night, but she was leading a camping trip with her church, so we haven’t seen each other.

I’d like her to text to say what happened was okay. Really I’d like her to say it never happened at all. I don’t know why I even feel the need to say it never happened, she would write, since it didn’t and I have no memory of it.

That would be fine.

She doesn’t appear to be writing, so I tell myself to play it cool and send a casual hello.

HEYO, I text. FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!

She doesn’t write back.

I whisper to the phone, “Skip back ten seconds please.”

There’s a quiet laugh beside me.

A kid I’ve never seen before sits in the office waiting area. He’s Black, with dark brown skin, and his hair is buzzed very short. His pants—I think they’re pleated dress pants—are wide at the bottom but high and tight around his waist. He wears a loose white T-shirt tucked in, the sleeves rolled up to show side-muscles on his arms.

“Sorry,” I say. “I was talking to myself.”

“Did it work?”

“Rewinding my life?” I look at the phone. “I don’t believe so.”

“Dang. I was hoping I could try it for a few things.”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. The skin on his face is so clear it makes me think I don’t know how to wash mine.

Mrs. Farmer pokes her head over her computer and says to him, “Let’s figure out your schedule.”

His pants swish as he walks past me and says, “Hope your future’s okay anyway.”

“Thanks. Yours too.”

The bell rings and I join the herd of students entering the hallway. I look back through the office window as the kid looks up from what Mrs. Farmer is showing him.

He smiles and I see the gap between his front teeth.

Everyone in this three-story cement block is dressed in their first-day outfits. I don’t really have new clothes, but last week I took an old T-shirt and drew on it a robot sounding a barbaric yawp, so I’m looking fresh. I greet everyone with a flawless imitation of myself.

“Ahoy!” I shout at a passing debate team kid.

She throws two fists in the air. “Seniors!”

I give a firm nod before turning to see a slacker girl I met in Leadership opening her locker. I offer her a shimmy dance like here we go-o-o, and she laughs. “Good to see you too.”