Usually, on the first day of school, we get assigned to tables. Tables are five or six desks all smashed together with name tags stuck to the tops. That’s how it’s been since kindergarten.

But in Ms. Sett’s room, all the desks are lined up like soldiers, all facing front, and there aren’t any plants. That’s always a bad sign. No plants. Plus, it’s super hot because the day is way too warm for September and the school’s air-conditioning is broken.

Ms. Sett stands outside the door smiling and saying, “Welcome all! Welcome! How do you do?” like she’s from the twentieth century or something.

“Just find your desk and sit, and you may place those on my desk before you sit down,” she says. Denis has a three-pack of tissues, Marci has two big bottles of hand sanitizer. I came empty-handed. We’re all sweating a little bit—but the girls look really uncomfortable because they’re not allowed to wear shorts.

When everyone finds their seats, Ms. Sett moves to the front of the room. She’s wearing a dress with green triangles on it—different shades of green and different-sized triangles—and she wears a triangle bracelet that matches. Her hair is a little shorter than Mom’s, right to her shoulder, and she looks about thirty-five years old, if I was to guess, even though her letters in the paper read like she’s from a black-and-white movie.

She’s sweating, too, but seems to be fine with it, even as it drips down the side of her face.

She says, “I am so excited about this school year for all of you! Sixth grade! Your last here at Independence Elementary. So much to learn!” She claps her hands together excitedly.

“There are some things you need to know about this classroom, though, folks. It’s all about rules. We don’t tolerate any of the behaviors your age group usually indulges in, so you can forget about giggling, goofing off, or making funny noises with your armpits. If you take out your phone for any reason whatsoever, I will drop it in the tank of water at the back of the class, and you’ll get its useless skeleton back at the end of the day. Forget also about talking to each other, passing notes, and bad posture. Never forget posture, students! Sit up straight and smile!”

Denis winces.

“In this classroom, you will be treated like an adult. And if you behave in the way I’m asking you to behave, there will be numerous benefits. The first being very little homework.”

A joyful murmur moves through the classroom. It makes her smile.

“The way I want you to see this year of your education is like college. You get to choose what you want to learn about, you get to choose the books you read off our class list, and you get to make your own study schedules. If you do poorly, it’s on you. If you do well, your grades will reflect it. Sound good?”

I look around. Everyone is nodding. As I nod with them, I can feel my mouth hanging open. I’m starstruck. This is the kind of teacher I’ve wanted my whole if-it’s-not-interesting-I-don’t-care life.

At lunch, Denis complains about how she split us up—me by the window, him over by the door. Marci says, “And me right in the middle!” But all I can do is dream of sixth-grade college. I’m already writing reports in my head about botflies so I don’t have to learn about boring things like names for types of clouds. And I’m sick of learning half-truths instead of history, so maybe I can do a project on something completely true for once—like why it’s not a cool touristy thing that the pretzel house on Main Street highlights the musket slats in the building and the fact that they could shoot at Native Americans through them. Maybe I can write about how it wasn’t okay to be shooting at the rightful caretakers of the land. For the record, that would be the Susquehannock and Lenni Lenape tribes.

“Are you even listening to us?” Denis asks.

“Sorry,” I tell them. “She’s just not what I expected.”

Marci says, “She certainly acts a lot cooler than people told me.”

“I read her letters in the paper and she seems like a completely different person!” Denis says.

He’s right. The Ms. Sett who complains about everything from candy eating on Main Street to the growing number of local families who do yard work instead of church on Sunday mornings does not seem like this same woman.

“Maybe it’s a different person,” I say. “Like her mom or something.”

Marci shakes her head. “It’s her. She’s just showing us the nice side today. I guarantee you there’s more to this first-day routine than we can see right now.”

Grandad packed me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bag of fluorescent-orange cheese curls for lunch. I get my stuff set up and shake my bottle of chocolate milk.

“You can’t have those!” Marci whispers, pointing at the cheese curls.

“I can have whatever I want.”

“The school doesn’t allow junk food,” Marci says. “Ms. Sett has written about that repeatedly.”

“Junk is a matter of perception,” I say. “If she or anyone else has a problem with what my grandad packs for lunch, then they can take it up with him. I wish them luck. He’s more stubborn than I am.”

Denis says, “Your superpower is your bluntness.”

I say, “Yes, it is.”

Marci sighs. “I just don’t want you to get in trouble.” She’s red in the face … but not from anything we’ve said. The cafeteria has hundreds of students in it and it’s so humid, my cheese curls are going stale.

“I’m not getting in trouble,” I assure Marci.

At the same time, I’ll admit—I’m glad Ms. Sett isn’t in the room as I chomp some Cheetos.

The rest of the day is easy. We have recess and then music before we get back to the classroom, where we all get divided up for math. Ms. Sett gives us homework on the first day of school—forty math problems.

Denis is breathing so deep everyone can hear him. Homework makes him irrationally upset. And being lied to makes him freak out completely.

Ms. Sett notices and smiles at Denis warmly. “I know I said this morning that you’d have very little homework,” she tells him, “but that’s once we get into the year’s work. For now, we have to review and make sure you remember what you learned last year.”

Denis calms down. I’m sure Ms. Sett already read the papers filed with the office about Denis’s problems with homework. And his anxiety. And probably his fear of snakes and water. (And water snakes, which seems obvious.) Also, Denis is afraid of tongues. This sounds weird, but he can’t even look at his own tongue in the mirror without feeling sick. I don’t know if the school knows that.

I honestly don’t mind that I’ve got to watch my tongue when Denis is around. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. We’re going to be friends until we’re old and sitting on the benches on Main Street, me eating candy and him eating string cheese. Maybe he’ll still be afraid of water snakes and his own tongue. Maybe not. I don’t care as long as he’s still the most loyal person I’ve ever met and he still talks to me.

I’ve been called unlikable.

I blame my parents, one of whom is a normal American mom who is full of grace, and the other who is a rabbit-fearing cranky alien from a planet three galaxies away called BD-134. How this makes me unlikable: Both of them encourage me to say what’s on my mind.

Anyway, this is how it all starts: Me, Denis, and Marci in Ms. Sett’s classroom. BOT DUCK MAN. Record-breaking hot autumn weather with no air-conditioning. Rules about girls wearing shorts. How your history books don’t tell you the whole truth. How my dad says he’s from BD-134. How everything seems so perfect on the first day of school. Too perfect.

Who Makes the Rules?

I moved here a year ago and I don’t think people in this town realize how weird it is to have a rule against junk food. Who can say that a food is junk food? And what kind of person thinks they can rule over a whole town’s eating habits? I also find it interesting that there are three candy stores in town.
—Sam Paris, New Street

Re: Who Makes the Rules?

Our town serves tourists, and candy stores are good business. That said, maybe Sam Paris has not noticed that our country has an obesity problem. Junk food is junk because it has little to no nutritional value and it is often overused as snack food. May I suggest you go to the farmers’ market and note the wide array of fruits and vegetables available there.
—Laura Samuel Sett