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class—at least the kids in front of me are slumping.
    â€œWhat’s a thesis?”
    I know this.
    No one is raising their hands.
    Mrs. Ogletree stares at the class until a boy can’t stand the silence anymore. He raises his hand. She points at him. “Donald.”
    â€œUh, a thesis . . . is kind of like an idea.” He has a flat voice.
    â€œThat’s right . . .” She wants more, though, and this teacher can wait. Kids are looking down. I don’t want to raise my hand on the first day, but I don’t have any choice. She nods at me.
    â€œA thesis is like a theory,” I say. “It’s an idea you have, and you need to explain it and build on it.”
    Everyone looks at me.
    â€œVery good, Gerard.”
    â€œIt’s Jeremiah, ma’am.”
    I can’t believe that the three-paragraph essay has followed me to Ohio!
    Or the recorder.
    In Music Appreciation, twenty kids with recordersare trying to play “Go Tell Aunt Rhody,” which makes me want to run out of the room, it’s so grim. I’ve got this song down like some kids know “Chopsticks” on the piano.
    â€œYou’re quite good at the recorder, Jerry,” Mrs. Nimroy says.
    I mention it’s Jeremiah, not Jerry. I don’t mention that only Walt is allowed to call me Jer.
    It’s good to know the stuff you learn has applications in other places.
    It’s less good when it’s not the stuff you care about.
    â—†Â â—†Â â—†
    I’ve been looking for Franny all day. I see her in the cafeteria sitting at a table with other girls. She has a tray of red velvet cupcakes with white frosting.
    I walk up. “I’m Jeremiah, the interesting new kid. Remember? You brought these cupcakes for my first day?”
    She laughs. “It’s my birthday. Today I’m twelve.”
    I meet her friend Lilah, who is in charge of the cupcakes. If I stare at them long enough, I bet I’ll get one.
    â€œWould you like a cupcake . . . Jeremiah?”
    I sit down. “I would.” I turn to Franny. “You need to do something fantastic. No, beyond amazing, for your birthday. You can never take a birthday for granted.” I’m big on birthdays, since mine is a theory.
    â€œMy grandpa is taking me to a Cincinnati Reds game tonight.”
    That’s a celebration, and this is an excellent cupcake. “Where are you sitting?”
    â€œThe bleachers. We always sit there.”
    â€œThat’s good, Franny. You learn a lot about life in the bleachers.”
    One of the girls at the table asks me, “Where are you from?”
    â€œWell, it’s a secret planet that hasn’t been discovered yet.”
    All the girls laugh. I finish the top on my cupcake, then attack the bottom.
    â€œIt’s called St. Louis,” Franny mentions.
    â€œThat’s just a cover,” I assure her.
    â—†Â â—†Â â—†
    Franny and I take the bus home from school together. It pulls onto our street. The dog I whistled at yesterday is watching.
    â€œYou’ve got a name, I bet,” I shout to the dog.
    â€œIt’s Adler,” Franny tells me.
    â€œAdler, come.”
    Adler sits there studying me. I whistle like yesterday. I have to whistle three times, but the third time works. Adler pads over.
    â€œThat is totally amazing, Jeremiah!”
    â€œSo what’s your story, Adler?” I get down on one knee and rub this dog’s neck, then move under his chin. “My dog, Digger, loved this.” The dog wags its tail. It looks part spaniel, part something else. “Are you a combo plate?”
    Franny laughs. The dog sits there.
    I don’t know what I am, either. It’s okay. You can still have a good life.
    An older man walks out of Franny’s house, followed by a lady who looks like Franny. The man says, “Son, how did you get that dog over there?”
    â€œI whistled.”
    The man and