Ms. D put down her pencil. “Okay,” she said.

“I just need to know something,” I said. “Am I dumb?”

“Excuse me?” she said.

“I know how that sounds,” I said. “But seriously, not everyone can be smart, right? That’s how it works. Someone has to be dumb. And I was just wondering if you thought—”

“I’m going to stop you right there, Rafe. Because I don’t believe in ‘dumb,’” Ms. D said. She even seemed a little mad. “Take a look around this room. What do you see?”

That wasn’t what I expected. In fact, I wasn’t sure what she was asking, which just made me feel—hello?—kind of dumb.

“Um…” I said, “the lock on that window’s broken?”

“Look at the art,” she said. She had pictures on the wall, of all those masterpieces I was talking about a minute ago.

“The people who created these were some of the greatest artists to ever live,” she said. “They saw the world differently. And that means some of them probably learned things differently too. Just like you. I don’t know what ‘dumb’ has to do with any of that, but I’d suggest you stop worrying about it.”

“It’d be easier to not worry about it if I wasn’t in Mr. Fanucci’s class,” I said.

“Yes, well, you are in Mr. Fanucci’s class,” she said. “You’re also in mine. And I expect big things from you.”

“You do?” I said. Because most people don’t.

“Of course,” she said, like it was obvious. “You shine brightly, Rafe. Sometimes on the outside, and always on the inside. Let’s see some of that with your work this year, okay?”

I’ll admit one thing. I left that art room feeling a whole lot better than I did when I came in.

But I also noticed Ms. Donatello didn’t exactly answer my question either.

So I kept asking around.