Step 2: Try to Fit In—Badly
I’ve never been the new kid before.
I always felt bad for the new kid standing in front of the classroom, having to tell us all about themselves. And now it’s me. I’m standing up in front of a room full of fifth graders, wearing the itchy, uncomfortable pink dress my mom put out for me. There was a beautiful white floaty dress at the department store that I wanted to buy for my first day of school, but for some reason, my mom never, ever lets me wear white, so that’s how we ended up with this one. And now I don’t know what to say.
“Go on, Ada,” my teacher, Mrs. Ratner, says to me. “Tell everyone a little about yourself.”
I don’t like Mrs. Ratner. My old teacher, Ms. Marcus, was young and wore these cute purple glasses all the time, and she used to bring candy for us every Thursday. Mrs. Ratner is about a million years old, and I think her smile muscles might be too old to work anymore.
“My name is Ada,” I say, “and I’m from New York City.”
I look over at Mrs. Ratner, checking if this might be enough. It isn’t.
“I like to read,” I say. “And I used to take ballet lessons.” I haven’t taken ballet lessons since I was nine years old, but I’m hoping that might be enough.
It’s not.
“My favorite subject is English,” I go on. “And my dad is Italian so I speak Italian.”
“Does anyone have any questions for Ada?” Mrs. Ratner addresses the class.
A kid in the class raises his hand. “If your dad is an alien, is he green?”
“He’s not an alien. He’s Italian.”
“You said alien.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Then the second question comes: “If you’re Italian, how come your favorite subject is English?”
“My dad is Italian,” I explain. “I’m from here.”
“No, you’re not,” another kid says. “You just moved here. So how can you be from here?”
“I mean,” I say, “I’m from New York, which is here.”
“This is not New York City,” the first kid says.
“But it’s New York State.”
“So?”
Mrs. Ratner lets the other kids ask me questions for a few more minutes. They ask me some questions that are okay, like what is my favorite movie or my favorite TV show. But they ask me a lot of other questions that are weird. Like, why am I wearing socks with a dress? And that same kid who asked if my dad was an alien asks me if I believe in aliens and if I’ve ever seen one.
When I go back to my seat, the boy next to me is staring at me. It’s pretty annoying, and I finally say to him, “What is it?”
And then he says, “If you are an alien, you are the prettiest alien I have ever seen.”
I don’t even know what to say to that. But then Mrs. Ratner shushes us, so I don’t have to think of what to say back.
When it’s time for lunch, the boy who was sitting next to me follows me to the cafeteria. Well, I am pretty much following everyone else since I don’t know where to go, but I feel like he is behind me the whole time. And then when I get into the line, he is right in line behind me.
“Hi, Ada,” he says. “I’m Gabe.”
“Hi,” I say back.
When I was in kindergarten or first grade, all the kids in our class were about the same size. But in fifth grade, some kids are a lot bigger than others. Like, there are kids that only go up to my shoulder, and then there are other kids like Gabe who are super tall and kind of tower over me.
“So how do you like the school so far?” he asks me.
I don’t like it at all. But I can’t say that. So I just shrug. “It’s fine.”
“How come you moved here?”
“My parents think it’s a good place for kids to grow up or something.”
“Oh, it’s not.” Gabe’s eyes bug out, and for a moment, he reminds me a little bit of the praying mantis that Nico wants to get. “Did you know that this kid disappeared a few years ago? Like, one day he was here, and one day he wasn’t.”
I don’t know what he is talking about. If this town wasn’t safe, my parents wouldn’t have moved us here. “From our school?”
“No, he lived a few towns away, but we all went to the same camp together.” Gabe looks way too excited to talk about this missing kid. “He was really good at archery, but I was a better swimmer. His name was Braden Lundie. And like I said, one day he just never came home from school, and nobody ever figured out what happened to him.”
“They say it’s usually someone in the family.” I heard my mom saying that once to my dad when they were watching the news and thought I couldn’t hear them.
“No, it wasn’t,” Gabe insists. “Braden’s parents were working with the police and trying so hard to find him. But they never did.” He gives me an ominous look. “He’s probably dead now.”
“Maybe he ran away.”
“He was only eight years old! Where would he even go?”
