Like most of the other teachers in this place, he either thought too highly of a Catholic school education, or he was making fun of me. I was never sure which it was.

“I don’t . . . ,” I started to say, but then noticed every eye in the room was on me. I knew my face was bright red and could feel droplets of sweat trickling down my back. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, cleared my throat, and recited the only poem I had ever memorized.

Judging from the silence in the classroom, maybe a poem from third grade wasn’t the best choice. Mr. Manillo cleared his throat. “That was, ah, interesting,” he said. “And that piece was by . . .”

“Shel Silverstein,” I said quickly. “A Light in the Attic.”

The whole class started laughing. And I knew right away they weren’t laughing with me. I could hear other kids talking behind me. I glanced toward the open door, wishing the bell would ring so I could run out and be anonymous in the crowd. Instead, I stayed glued to my seat, staring straight ahead, my head pounding with embarrassment.

Mr. Manillo held up his hand. “People, please.” He looked right through me. “This semester, we are studying the great masters of the seventeenth century and comparing the different forms of poetry. I’m afraid Mr. Silverstein is not on the syllabus.”

The laughing started to subside as he called on Josh. “Mr. Lee, do you have a better example of a popular poetry form?”

I was glad Josh was sitting in front of me so that I couldn’t see the look of disgust that was probably on his face. At least he hadn’t turned around to laugh directly at me. He cleared his throat and began to recite his poem in a clear, deep voice.

My pulse was pounding in my ears so loudly that at first I didn’t listen, but then I began to hear people giggling all around the room and I started to pay attention. By the time he was done with “Jimmy Jet and His TV Set,” I had the smallest but deepest grin on my face.