That teacher, I discovered when I walked into my second period English class an hour later, was Mr. Venza.
“Ah, cool locker girl,” he said when I raised my hand during attendance after he called my name and told him Bowie, not Brianna. He made a note in the margin of his class roster.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” a guy called out from the back of the room. “Why is she ‘cool locker girl’?”
“Why don’t you ask her later?” Mr. Venza said, cutting off any further response from the boy. His name was Brady—he’d been called during roll call already—and by the way he ignored me instead of taking Mr. Venza’s suggestion, I was pretty sure he was an Army kid. I’d spent the better part of the morning—when I wasn’t freaking out about my locker or navigating the halls—trying to figure out how to distinguish the Fort Dix kids from the McGuire ones. Even though I planned on staying out of the rivalry drama, it felt like something I needed to know.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” Mr. Venza said after finishing attendance and tossing the folder onto his desk, “let’s get down to business.”