My backpack always reeked of yesterday's peanut butter when I walked into my new second-grade classroom. I fumbled with my lunch money on the counter by the door, a soggy crutch under the fluorescent lights that made everyone look like a pale, waxy crayon. During the chaos of morning roll-call, I tried to hide my face behind my bangs, but they kept bouncing back, a fluffy pink radar dish beeping loudly every time my teacher asked for my name in unison with the rest of the class, and I felt the heat rise to the tip of my messy little girl nose, right under those two big freckles, until finally she stopped trying to read "Auntie Emily Anne," and my whole body relaxed with a relieved whoosh into the chaos like a tiny parachute opening slowly in the sky outside, while I whispered my actual name - Emily - to the floor tile next to Mrs. Thompson’s sensible shoes.
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