When I enter her office, she groans and starts kneading her face rhythmically in a slow circle. I’m mesmerized by her hands, alternately hiding and emerging like turtle heads from within the suit jacket’s sleeves. “Uh, Miss Niffenhauer?” I begin in a respectful tone, but the principal cuts me off. “Save it.” She points to the sign over her desk and recites it like a mantra: “‘No excuses. No drama. No bull.’” Just clichés. Got it. “All I want is a copy of my schedule.” Miss Niffenhauer stops kneading her face and pulls her glasses halfway down her nose. “It’s the end of May,” she says. “There are nine days left in the school year, Mr. . . . Mr. . . . Hold on, I’m blanking on your name.” Stumped, she stands, then sits, then stands again. “Well, son of a gun. The old memory’s not what it used to be.” My stomach feels sick. Why doesn’t anyone remember me when I live here, go to school here? It only gets worse when she finally looks me up in the computer.
