“You okay, Angel?” the teacher asked, peering worriedly at her from behind his desk.

Okay? she repeated silently to herself. How could she be okay after what had happened this morning? And if Mr. English didn’t know what was wrong, how was she going to explain it to him? After all, it had happened right there during the first period, just before the bell sounded, when Mr. English asked the class if they wanted to sing “Happy Birthday” to her. “Happy Birthday,” like it was still third grade! Didn’t he know that none of her classmates even spoke to her except to say mean things? So there she’d sat, in her seat in the last row, her face burning with embarrassment as a horrible silence fell over the room and half the class turned to stare at her. The only thing that saved her from bursting into tears of humiliation was that the bell had rung. Then everyone rushed for the door.

And now Mr. English wanted to know if she was okay?

Biting her lip but saying nothing, she hurried toward the door and the safety of the corridor beyond, which with any luck would now be empty.

“Angel?”

She heard Mr. English, but was already out of the room, the door swinging shut behind her.

Angel. What kind of name was Angel?

For a long time — well, maybe not all that long, but for a while, anyway — she had thought it was a wonderful name, maybe the most wonderful name in the world. Even now, memories of phrases from when she was barely more than a baby echoed softly in her mind.