“Oh sure, of course. I’m sorry,” the student stammers and quickly changes the subject. “Anyway, man, it’s cold, isn’t it? I hope the party is inside.”

The hum of whispers doesn’t stop when the lecture starts, and Ms. Mann makes no attempt to quiet anyone. She writes a few notes on the board about the limits at infinity and orders us to solve problems in section 3.5. There are fourteen of them, which makes the entire class groan in dismay.

She ignores the pleas to cut the assignment in half and takes a seat behind her desk, where she proceeds to glare at me every five minutes or so. Felicity says that I cheated, which would explain those pointed stares, but I don’t feel like a cheat—however a cheat feels.

Ms. Mann starts talking and I fix my eyes forward, trying to concentrate on the topics at hand. The equations aren’t easy, but I understand the base principles, and the new concepts simply build on those. I catch on quick. When we’re given free time to solve a set of problems, I finish before anyone else and without errors. While waiting for the rest of the class to complete the in-room homework, I flip to the earlier sections of the textbook looking for the areas where I must’ve struggled.

But I don’t come across any. Derivatives, the extrema values, the open and closed intervals and the critical numbers all make sense. I take a sample problem finding the extrema of f(x) = 2 sin x – cos 2x and solve it, checking my work in the back.

There isn’t a past section that stumps me. What’s confusing is why I would’ve cheated in this class at all. I know this stuff.

Baffled, I decide I’m going to confront this head on. After class is over, I loiter in my chair until only Ms. Mann and I are left in the room.

“What is it?” Ms. Mann asks impatiently.

“You probably heard, but I lost my memory.”

“I have heard. It seems very convenient.” She eyes me dismissively.

“Not for me,” I mutter to myself. To her, I say, “I heard I was accused of cheating in this class, but I feel like I understand the material.”

“Then don’t cheat next time.”

“How was it that I cheated before?”

She huffs out a noise—half laugh, half grunt of disgust. “Are you asking me for advice on how to cheat?”

“No. I’m trying to fill in the blanks—”

“You better leave before I start suspecting that you cheated on your homework today. The best advice I have for you, Ms. Wright, is to keep your head down and make as little noise as possible. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to prepare for tomorrow’s lessons.”

In other words, get out and don’t talk to me again. A little stunned, I gather up my pencil and notebook. I didn’t expect my first day back at school to be a picnic, but I didn’t think it’d be a nightmare like this, either. At the door, I turn back. “I’m sorry. For whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t even look my way.

After the last bell rings, I hurry to the bus line. I find a small group of students toward the end of the wide boulevard in front of Astor Park and join it, standing behind a girl wearing cute white boots with her Astor Park uniform. The boy in front of her pokes the girl’s shoulder. She peeks behind her and meets my eyes.

I smile. She frowns and scuttles forward.

Being an outcast is not fun, I decide. I wonder what bus I take home. I know that the girl in front of me doesn’t want to talk, but if I get on the wrong bus, that’ll be worse than being bitched out here on the sidewalk where only a couple of people are watching.

“Excuse me, can you tell me which bus goes to West and Eighty-Sixth Street?” I ask, naming an intersection near my house.

“What are you talking about?”

I repeat myself. “I’m not sure which bus I should take.”

The girl rolls her eyes. “What are you, dumb? There are no buses at Astor.”

“She’s not dumb; she’s pretending she can’t remember nearly killing Sebastian Royal,” supplies her male friend.

“Why did they even allow her to come back here? What if she gets into a car? She could kill us all.” The girl shudders.

“That’s why she has to take public transportation. The cops took her license away.” The boy declares these lies without hesitation. I gape at him.

“Thank God,” the girl says. “Let’s go. I don’t want to stand here anymore. The air pollution is making me sick.”

The boy grabs her hand and the two jog toward the parking lot. Shame, deserved or not, paints the tops of my ears red. At this rate, someone’s going to smear a scarlet letter across my chest and I’ll have to start answering to the name Hester. Tears prick at the back of my eyes.

Whatever I’d done in the past must have been terrible to have to endure this. I’m blinking back the tears when a car honks, and I look over to see a good-looking face peering out from the driver’s window.

“Hartley? I guess you don’t remember me, but I’m Bran. We were friends. I can drive you home.”

On a different day, I probably would’ve said no. I don’t know this guy. I’ve already got a shit reputation and climbing into a car driven by a strange boy isn’t going to help, but I’ve reached the end of my rope. I grab the door handle and climb in.