DedicationTo all adopted kids everywhere: this one’s for youOceanofPDF.com ContentsCoverTitle PageDedicationTuesday, September 5: 8:10 A.M.Tuesday, September 5: 8:15 A.M.Tuesday, September 5: 12:37 P.M.Tuesday, September 5: 6:38 P.M.Tuesday, September 12: 8:40 A.M.Tuesday, September 12: 12:35 P.M.Tuesday, September 12: 4:04 P.M.Tuesday, September 12: 4:31 P.M.Tuesday, September 12: 4:53 P.M.Tuesday, September 12: 5:17 P.M.Wednesday, September 13: 8:15 A.M.Wednesday, September 13: 8:30 A.M.Tuesday, September 12 (Again!!!): 2:41 P.M.Tuesday, September 12, for the Third (and Fourth) (andFifth) Time: 2:42 P.M.Wednesday, September 13: 8:40 A.M.Wednesday, September 13: 3:49 P.M.Wednesday, September 13: 6:16 P.M.Wednesday, September 13: 7:15 P.M.Friday, September 15: 3:48 P.M.Monday, September 18: 8:59 A.M.Tuesday, September 12: 8:40 A.M.Monday, September 18: 12:44 P.M.Monday, September 18: 4:01 P.M.Tuesday, September 19: 8:15 A.MTuesday, September 19: 12:37 P.M. Tuesday, September 19: 12:46 P.M.Friday, September 22: 12:48 P.M.Friday, September 22: 8:26 P.M.Friday, September 22: 8:37 P.M.Monday, September 25: 7:43 A.M.Monday, September 25: 8:14 A.M.October 23, 1956: 9:43 A.M.April 28, 1961: 9:43 A.M.Monday, September 25: 8:14 A.M.Monday, September 25: 12:35 P.M.Tuesday, September 5: 8:10 A.M.Tuesday, September 5: 8:17 A.M.Monday, September 25: 12:40 P.M.Tuesday, September 26: 2:40 P.M.Tuesday, September 26: 3:41 P.M.Tuesday, September 12: (For the . . . Sixth Time? Who’sCounting All This?): 2:44 P.M.Tuesday, September 26: 3:59 P.M.Monday, March 26: 4:15 P.M.Tuesday, March 27: 5:55 P.M.????????: (I Still Don’t Know What Year It Is.)Tuesday, March 27: 4:34 P.M.Tuesday, September 5: 8:10 A.M.Tuesday, September 5: 8:15 A.M.Tuesday, September 12: 8:40 A.M.Tuesday, September 12: 12:35 P.M.Tuesday, September 12: 2:42 P.M.Tuesday, September 12: 3:07 P.M.Tuesday, September 12: 4:30 P.M.Saturday, September 16: 9:05 A.M.Saturday, September 16: 9:44 A.M.Saturday, September 16: 10:23 A.M.Saturday, September 16: 10:44 A.M.Saturday, September 16: 11:24 A.M.Saturday, September 16: 11:59 A.M. March: Six Months Later . . . But Not a Mistake, This TimeAcknowledgmentsAbout the AuthorBooks by Mark OshiroCopyrightAbout the PublisherOceanofPDF.com Tuesday, September 58:10 A.M.The (first) first day of middle school“What if we justdon’t go to school?”I’m standing next to Antoine Harris, who’s got his thumbslooped behind the straps of his backpack. His mom left thetwo of us here, staring at the steps that lead up to theentrance of Mira Monte Middle School. Other kids arerushing up them before the first bell rings, but the two ofus? We’re not moving at all.“That’s a really good idea, David,” says Antoine. “Butwhat are we going to do all day?”I scratch at my chin. “We could walk to Target.”Antoine’s raises an eyebrow at me. “Target?”“I already came up with the perfect cover story,” I say.“We were hired by LEGO to assemble the display models.”“Okay, but I get all theStar Wars ones.”I put my hands up. “They’re all yours. I’ll be busyassembling that huge fire station set they have.”“That’s a good plan,” says Antoine, smirking, but then heturns back to those daunting steps. He sighs. “It can’t bethat bad, can it?” “We don’t have any classes together!” I whine.“And we haveclasses,” Antoine says, frowning. “I don’tget why we can’t still have the same teacher all day.”“Whoever made up the idea of middle school is evil,” Isay. “We should turn around right now and head straight tothe LEGOS.”Antoine hesitates, then scratches his scalp between twoof the intricately braided cornrows he just got a few daysago. “I think my parents would be mad if I didn’t show up tothe first day of school.”“Well, ofcourse,” I say. “But think how excited they’ll beto find out we’ve been hired by Target to put together alltheir LEGO sets.”He laughs at that. “How about this?” he says. “Let’sregroup at lunch. At least then we don’t have to becomeclichés and worry about where we’re going to sit.”“Excellent plan,” I say. “No after-school specials aboutus.”And then:The Handshake.We slap the back sides of our hands against each other’stwice.“Crisscross,” we say in unison.A dap, mine on top first, then his.“Always floss.”(Because we both care about dental hygiene, okay?)We grip each other’s hands but only at the fingers.“Always friends.”Then we pull our hands apart, so fast that it makes alittle snapping sound.“To the end.”Antoine bumps his shoulder against mine as the two ofus ascend the stairs to Mira Monte Middle School. I don’tknow what our first day of seventh grade will hold, but atleast my best friend is at my side. And then, for the first time since we met in first gradewhen his family moved here from Virginia, Antoine veers off,waving, and heads to a different class than mine.I have this urge to chase after him, but I don’t.No, David,I tell myself, and I stop walking just short of the front gate.You just have to make it to lunch.I can do that.I think.But maybe not. I don’t like new things, like surprises oranything that interrupts my routines. Starting at this newschool feels like a million surprises and interruptions allwrapped into one giant mess.I breathe in. I breathe out. A part of me wants to give into the sensation sneaking up on me and justfreeze. I dothat sometimes, especially when I’m overwhelmed.There’s also a bigger part of me that doesn’t want to bethe weirdo standing outside the school when the first bellrings.So I make myself keep going, past the iron front gate,and I join the stream of students at Mira Monte MiddleSchool, walking into the uncertain and the unknown.OceanofPDF.com Tuesday, September 58:15 A.M.First class (not the fancy seats in an airplane,unfortunately)I reach into my pocket and pull out the folded piece of paperI stuffed in there earlier. I have all six of my classes markedin color-coded ink, but somehow, I forgot to includeclassroom numbers. So I know I have SOCIAL STUDIES firstbut absolutely no idea where it is.Oh, this is going to be fun.I move to the side as a river of more kids pours intocampus. Mom and Dad brought me here a week ago fororientation, but they didn’t give us a tour, and this place islike a never-ending maze. At least I’m not going to the othermiddle school—La Sierra Junior High—all the way on theother side of town. That has to be the ugliest campus I’veever seen.I’m already sweating as I rush up to the closest building.It’s always so warm here in California that our schools aremade up of several buildings, spread out from one another.Antoine told me that his old school out in Virginia was asingle building because it got snowy and cold during the winter. To be honest, the design of our schools here makesno sense to me. Whowants to be outside when it’s superhot?Like right now. The sign on the side of the building readsMATHEMATICS. A drop of sweat runs right into the side ofmy eye.This is the worst.I turn around and thankfully spot a sign that saysHISTORY AND SOCIAL STUDIES on the building across theway. I unfortunately have to cut through a bunch of kids toget there, which earns me numerous dirty looks. Relieffloods me when I see a paper tacked to an open door withthe name of the teacher I’m looking for.I walk into Mr. Bradshaw’s class—room 213—and amimmediately faced with another choice to make.Where do I sit?“Welcome, students,” says Mr. Bradshaw, a tall whiteman with a shiny bald spot in the middle of his gray-and-white hair. “Please choose where you sit carefully. That willbe your seat for the remainder of the year!”More students shuffle in—tall, brown, Black, white, Asian,short, chubby, awkward, loud—and desks are disappearingquickly. I think about sitting next to the girl in the front rowwith the freckles and pigtails, but the empty desk beside heris claimed while I hesitate. Do I quickly make a decisionbefore more desks are occupied? Oh, absolutely not. Thereare only two left by the time I dart over to the rear cornerand sit next to an Asian girl who slams a notebook shut assoon as I turn to her.“Hi,” she says, a nervous edge to her voice. “Gracie. Iwasn’t doing anything.”I blink a few times at her. “Okay,” I say. “I’m David.”She smiles but turns away.Well . . . that happened. I put my backpack on the floor tomy left, then pull out my own notebook and a pen. I don’tactually know what I’m supposed to be doing. Antoine’s older brother, Isaiah, told me when he visited over thesummer that middle school was going to be a big change forme. “You’ll have homework all the time,” he explained. “Andbe prepared to have to take notes.”I’m not really sure what that actually means. What am Isupposed to “note”? What the teacher is wearing? Thethings he says?Everything he says? Everything I’mthinking?Wow. This is a lot already, and class hasn’t even started.The bell rings, and right as it does, the last two kidscome tumbling into class. I don’t need to be a middle schoolexpert to know that I willnot be friends with them. They’reslugging each other in the shoulder repeatedly. The tallerand browner of the two—who honestly looks like he’s atleast in high school—sneers at the other. “Man, you’reweak,” he says.“Please take a seat, gentlemen,” says Mr. Bradshaw,gesturing to the only two open seats . . . which are of courseright in front of me.“Where should we take our seats?” says the other kid,then grabs the back of an empty chair and lifts it up.“Should we take them outside?”He’s the paler one, and he’s got this long, stringy blondhair that looks like what happens when the grass dries outin the fields behind my house.Should I take notes on that? Ithink.“Yeah, let’s go sit right outside the windows,” says thetall kid.Mr. Bradshaw’s mouth curls up on one side. He doesn’texactly look happy. I glance over at Gracie, and she slamsher notebook shut again and smiles.O-okay.As Mr. Bradshaw calls out our names and marks us downon his “map” of the classroom so he can do attendancemore easily in the future, I learn that the almost-late kidsare Tommy Rodriguez and Walter May. Tommy flashes two peace signs when Mr. Bradshaw calls out his name. “That’sme,” he says. “What are you gonna teach us, Teacher?”Mr. Bradshaw frowns. “This is social studies, Mr.Rodriguez.”“Dope,” says Tommy. “You gonna teach us aboutTwitter?”Our teacher narrows his eyes at Tommy. “What?”“You know,” says Tommy. “Like . . . social media?”This . . . this is going to be a long year.There are so many other kids in the room. I don’t catchall the names, but I know I’ll remember Wunmi Onyebuchibecause hers is so great. She’s got this gorgeous dark skinand her hair is shaved down short all over. She even has onaJulie and the Phantoms shirt, so I’m pretty sure she’scooler than me. Gracie’s last name is Lim, and Mr. Bradshawsmiles at her. “Good to have you here, Gracie,” he says.“I’ve heard a lot about you.”Gracie goes red in the face. I have no idea what thatmeans.Finally, after Tommy and Walter interrupt about forty-fivemore times (I am guessing, because I didn’tactually takenotes), Mr. Bradshaw introduces his class to us. He tells usthat we’re going to learn a little bit of history about theworld, but we’re also going to spend time “expanding ourhorizons.”“It’s my job to teach you about this wonderfully diverseand complicated world,” he explains. “And I can’t imagine abetter way of doing that than assigning you homework.”I can’t lie; like everyone else in class, I groan when Mr.Bradshaw says that.“Homeworkalready?” says Tommy.“Yes,already,” says Mr. Bradshaw. “But it’s going to bean easy A. I believe everyone here can start the year offwith a perfect score.”Gracie flips a few pages into her notebook to find a blankone, and I realize this must be it. It’s time to take notes. I ready myself, my pen in my hand.“Each of you is going to introduce us to the cultures ofyour home,” says Mr. Bradshaw.My heart leaps.“You will give a short presentation—all oral, under twominutes—explaining what cultures make up your home andmake youyou.”Wait.Wait.“Tell your fellow students about where you and yourparents come from! Do you have interesting culturalpractices or traditions in your home that you’d like toshare?”My throat tightens, and I try to gulp down all the spit inmy mouth, but I have to choke back a cough.Oh, no. No, I don’t want to do this.“I’ll start,” continues Mr. Bradshaw. “My family isoriginally from Boston, and I was born outside Cambridge,Massachusetts. But my grandparents are actually from aplace called Rotterdam, which is in the Netherlands, justsouth of Amsterdam! Have any of you been to Amsterdam?”There are a lot of head shakes, and a few kids softlymutter, “No.” I want to blurt out that most of us haven’teven left California before. The Netherlands?! I don’t evenknow where that is on a map!That’s not why my skin feels like it’s being shocked withelectricity, though. As Mr. Bradshaw talks about havingDutch heritage and all the kinds of food he ate growing up, Irealize just how hard this is going to be. I’m not like any ofthese people because . . . well, because I was adopted whenI was an infant.And I don’t actually know what I am.I’ve always known I was adopted. I mean . . . I wouldhave figured it out if my parents hadn’t told me. My mom isJapanese, born in Okinawa but raised in Hawai’i. So she’sgot a dark brown hue to her skin, and long black hair that’sas straight as can be. Dad’s parents are from Mexico and Brazil, and his skin tone is a lot like Mom’s, though his hairis intensely curly.Then there’s me. I don’t look like either of them. My skinis a lot lighter, though I tan super fast whenever I’m in thesun. My hair is black, but it’s wavy rather than curly. I don’tresemble my parents, either, so I usually get lots of weirdlooks when we’re out in public.Mom and Dad sat me down before I was ever in school totell me that they loved me very much, which is why theychose to have me be a part of their family. They’ve beenpretty open about it, too; Mom said I could always ask herquestions about my adoption if I wanted to.But what was there to ask about? The only question I had—all the way back in kindergarten, when Ms. Wells askedme if I knew anything about my birth parents—had alreadybeen answered. I was part of a “closed” adoption, meaningthat no one but the adoption agency knew anything aboutwhere I came from. My parents were told that my birthparents were Latinx, but that’s it. They knew exactly what Idid.Yet it didn’t seem to matter when I told other people that.Theyalways had questions, like Yasi in fourth grade, whowanted to know if I’d ever met my birth parents. Or Ms. Gull,the substitute in fifth grade, who asked me what it was likeknowing my past was a “mystery.”Oh, god, was I going to have to go through all of thisagain? I just don’t like thinking about this stuff.I haven’t taken any notes or heard a single thing ourteacher has been saying when I realize that my fellowclassmates are staring down at textbooks. And there’ssomehow one onmy desk. When did that show up?I don’t like this feeling, like there’s an avalanche waitingaround the corner and it’s only a matter of time before itcrashes down on me. I look to Gracie in panic, and shemouths “Page six” to me. I thank her silently and turn to it, desperate to catch up, but I still can’t escape the growingpanic inside me.Why do I have to start my first year of middle school withthis?OceanofPDF.com