I spent a long time choosing what I’d wear on my first day at school, settling on a pair of jeans and a Gap T-shirt, anonymous enough so that I wouldn’t stand out with the other students. Thinking again, I pul ed out a snug-fit jumper with a Union Jack worked in gold on the front. Might as wel accept what I was.

That was something Simon and Sal y had taught me. They knew about the difficulty I had recal ing my past and never pushed, saying I would remember if and when I was ready. It was enough for them that I was who I was now; I did not have to apologize for being incomplete. Stil , it did not stop me being plain scared of the unknown that was tomorrow.

Feeling a bit of a coward, I accepted Sal y’s offer to accompany me to the school office to enrol.

Wrickenridge High was about a mile down the hil from our neighbourhood, near the I-70, the main road that connected the town to the other ski resorts in the area. It was a building that had pride in its purpose: the name carved in stone over the double height doors, the grounds wel maintained. The hal way was crammed with noticeboards advertising the wide range of activities open to—or maybe expected of—

the students. I thought of the sixth form col ege I could have been attending in England. Tucked away behind the shopping centre in a mixture of Sixties buildings and portakabins, it had been anonymous, not a place you belonged to but passed through. I got the sense that belonging was a big part of the Wrickenridge experience. I wasn’t sure what I felt about that. I supposed it would be OK if I did manage to fit, but bad if I flunked the test of blending in to a new school.

Sal y knew I was anxious but chose to act as if I was going to be the most successful student ever known.

‘Look, they’ve got an art club,’ she said brightly.

‘You could try pottery.’

‘I’m useless at that stuff.’

She sucked her teeth, knowing that was the truth.

‘Music then. I see there’s an orchestra. Oh look, and cheerleading! That might be fun.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘You’d look sweet in one of those outfits.’

‘I’m about a foot too short,’ I said, eyeing the giraffe-legged girls that made up the cheerleading team on the team poster.

‘A pocket-sized Venus, that’s what you are. I wish I had your figure.’

‘Sal y, wil you stop being so embarrassing?’ Why was I even bothering to argue with her? I had no intention of becoming a cheerleader even if height wasn’t an issue.

‘Basketbal ,’ continued Sal y.

I rol ed my eyes.

‘Dance.’

It was a joke now.

‘Maths club.’

‘You’d need to club me over the head to get me in that,’ I muttered, making her laugh.

She squeezed my hand briefly. ‘You’l find your place. Remember, you are special.’

We pushed open the door to the office. The receptionist stood behind the counter, glasses attached to a chain around his neck; they bounced on his pink sweater as he stacked the mail in the teachers’ pigeonholes. He managed this at the same time as drinking from a takeaway coffee cup.

‘Ah, you must be the new girl from England! Come in, come in.’ He beckoned us closer and shook Sal y’s hand. ‘Mrs Bright, Joe Delaney. If you wouldn’t mind signing a few forms for me. Sky, isn’t it?’

I nodded.

‘I’m Mr Joe to the students. I’ve a welcome pack for you here.’ He handed it over. I saw that I already had a school swipe card with my photo. It was the one taken for my passport where I looked like a rabbit caught in headlights. Great. I slung the chain around my head and tucked the card out of sight.

He leant forward confidential y, giving me a whiff of his flowery aftershave. ‘I take it you are not familiar with how we do things here?’

‘No, I’m not,’ I admitted.

Mr Joe spent the next ten minutes patiently explaining what courses I could attend and what grades I needed to graduate.

‘We’ve made a timetable here based on the choices you made when you fil ed out your application but, remember, nothing is set in stone. If you want to change, just let me know.’ He checked his watch. ‘You’ve missed registration, so I’l take you straight to your first class.’

Sal y gave me a kiss and wished me luck. From here, I was on my own.

Mr Joe frowned at a crowd of loiterers by the late book, scattering them like a col ie herding recalcitrant sheep, before leading me towards the history corridor. ‘Sky, that’s a pretty name.’

I didn’t want to tel him that we chose it together only six years ago when I was adopted. I’d not been able to tel anyone my birth name when I was found and hadn’t spoken for years afterwards, so the Social Services had cal ed me Janet—‘Just Janet’, as one foster brother had joked. This had made me hate it more than ever. A new name was meant to help make a new start with the Brights; Janet had been relegated to my middle name.

‘My parents liked it.’ And I hadn’t been old enough to foresee how embarrassing it could be on occasion with my surname.

‘It’s cute, imaginative.’

‘Um, yeah.’ My heart was thumping, palms damp. I was not going to mess up. I was so not going to mess up.

Mr Joe opened the door.

‘Mr Ozawa, here’s the new girl.’

The Japanese-American teacher looked up from his laptop where he’d been running through some notes on the interactive white board. Twenty heads swung in my direction.

Mr Ozawa looked over the top of his little half-moon glasses at me, straight black hair flopping over one lens. He was good-looking in an older guy kind of way. ‘Sky Bright?’

A snigger ran through the class but it wasn’t my fault my parents had not warned me when we picked my name. As usual their heads had been ful of fanciful images rather than my future torment at school.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’l take it from here, Mr Joe.’

The receptionist gave me an encouraging nudge over the threshold and walked away. ‘Keep smiling, Sky.’

That was so going to happen when I felt like diving for cover under the nearest desk.

Mr Ozawa clicked to the next slide entitled ‘The American civil war’. ‘Take a seat anywhere you like.’

There was only one free that I could see, next to a girl with caramel-toned skin and nails painted red, white, and blue. Her hair was amazing—a mane of gingery brown dreadlocks fal ing past her shoulders.

I gave her a neutral smile as I slid in next to her. She nodded and tapped her talons on the desk while Mr Ozawa passed round a handout. When he turned away, she offered her palm for a brief brush rather than a shake.

‘Tina Monterey.’

‘Sky Bright.’

‘Yeah, I got that.’

Mr Ozawa clapped his hands to gain our attention.

‘OK, guys, you’re the lucky ones who’ve chosen to study nineteenth century American history. However, after ten years of teaching juniors I have no il usions and I expect the vacation has driven al knowledge from your brains. So, let’s start with an easy one.

Who can tel me when the Civil War started? And yes, I want the right month.’ His eyes scanned a class of expert head-duckers and came to rest on me.

Bummer.

‘Miss Bright?’

Any American history I had ever known vanished like the Invisible Man taking off his suit, piece by piece, leaving me a blank. ‘Um … you had a civil war?’

The class groaned.

I guess that meant I real y should’ve known that.

At recess, I was grateful that Tina didn’t abandon this clueless Brit despite my dismal performance in class. She offered to show me around the school.

Many things I came out with made her laugh—not because I was being funny, but because I was being too English, she said.