Tim cries under his breath as he guides me along the hall into the classroom wing.I’m too jittery to be distracted by his ribbing. It took me half an hour to get dressed this morning, only to end up with the same clothes I had put on first: a silk-and-cotton A-line skirt in a dark reddish-brown, a floral print blouse with three-quarter sleeves, and—the secret’s in the shoes—red leather strap sandals with heels. In New York, I would have made sure to wear at least one black item of clothing, not because black is the New York uniform but because black exudes authority and makes you look older. But for some reason this morning I felt that black wouldn’t be the right choice for my Ardrossan students. Now I wish I was dressed in the armor of Edward, the Black Prince of Wales.“Hang on, this is me.” Tim compares the number on the classroom door with the note in his folder. “Good luck! Oh, and Anna? You have to be gentler with our freshpeeps than with the scholarship kids from Brooklyn.”“Oh, c’mon, Tim!
