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I sat in the registrar’s office of the local high school. A woman with curly gray hair, blue eyes, and thick glasses listened to me as I nervously babbled.
“Where did you say you’re from?” she asked while studying my face thoughtfully.
I was used to this reaction from strangers. I figured instinctively that she was confused about my ethnicity. My features were as ambiguous as my mannerisms and accent.
My voice faltered as I said, “San Francisco.”
I wanted to keep things simple because my background confused most people. Thing is, except for passing through the airport, I had only spent a weekend in the Bay Area when I was ten.
“Ah, okay, that makes sense,” the woman murmured under her breath.
I continued talking, “Mom moved up here to focus on her artwork because Dad met this younger woman —”
The registrar cut me off gently. “It’s okay Natalia, no need to explain. Classes began last week, but we have space for you in Mr. McCann’s homeroom.”