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me. I just have to say the barest little nothing, like everyone else. I just have to throw them a bone.
    Mrs. Quenell looks at me with her clear, interested eyes and says, “All right, it’s your turn now.”
    She waits. I have no choice in the matter. I can’t say that I’m not in the mood; I’m sure Mrs. Quenell would never put up with that. I gaze downward at the wood grain of the table, which suddenly seems as interesting as Casey Cramer being in a wheelchair. I just stare and stare at it, and finally I look up and start, “Okay, let me see. My name is Jam Gallahue.” Then I stop, hoping that that’s enough to satisfy Mrs. Quenell.
    But of course it’s not.
    “Go on,” she says.
    “Well,” I say, looking down again, “my name is actually Jamaica, which is where my parents went on their honeymoon. And where I was
conceived.
” Marc laughs in embarrassment. “My brother called me Jam when he was little, and it stuck. Oh, and I’m from New Jersey.”
    Then I’m done, and I look around, and other than Mrs. Quenell no one seems all that fascinated by what I had to say. We’re all so pathetically awkward: five mismatched students and the teacher who chose us.
    And though this would be a good time for her to tell us why we’ve each been chosen—for her to say something like “You may be wondering why you’re here. Well, on your standardized tests, you each showed a special aptitude for reading comprehension”—she doesn’t even try to explain. Instead, she turns her head slightly to take each of us in; it’s as if she were studying us, trying to memorize our faces.
    I have rarely felt anyone pay this much attention to me before, outside of my parents and Dr. Margolis and, of course, Reeve. I wonder what she thinks is so interesting. If I were her and I had to sit here looking at us, I would be bored out of my mind.
    But Mrs. Quenell glances at me, and then at the rest of the class, as though we’ve all been riveting, and says, “Thank you, Jam, and thank you, everyone. It’s only fair for me to tell you a little bit about myself. My name is Mrs. Quenell. Veronica Quenell, actually, but I prefer being called
Mrs
. If any of you prefer being called
Mr.
or
Miss
, I am happy to oblige.” There’s silence. No, none of us prefer that. “I’ve been teaching at The Wooden Barn since long before you were born,” she continues. “I have certain demands that I place on my students, and I do ask that you meet them. Punctuality, of course, but not just that. Also, hard work, honesty, and openness. Now, you might well be thinking to yourself,
Yes, yes, Mrs. Quenell, I will meet all your demands.
But sometimes the mind shuts itself off, and no learning takes place. Reading does not get done. Assignments do not get met. And when that happens, well, there is no point to our being here.
    “But if you do all that I ask of you, I think you will find it very rewarding. I am passionate about teaching this class, which is the only class I now teach, because I am no longer a spring chicken. By which I mean I am no longer
young
. In case, somehow, you hadn’t noticed.” She pauses and looks around at all of us again. “Oh, so then you
have
noticed,” she says with a very faint smile. “Alas. Age is one of those things that none of us can do anything about.” Another pause, then she finally does say, “Some of you are perhaps wondering why you’ve been invited into Special Topics in English.”
    “No shit,” bursts out Griffin Foley, and there’s startled laughter around the table. Marc shakes his head. “You made a big mistake with me,” says Griffin.
    “Like anyone, I do make mistakes,” says Mrs. Quenell. “I am certainly not perfect. But I have reviewed your files carefully, and I have no doubt that you are in the right class. Even you, Griffin.” She glances around at us once again. “Between now and late December, when class ends, I’ll be extremely interested in hearing what you have to say