Drezform, our new homeroom teacher, has trouble pronouncing my last name, like all the other teachers I’ve had since kindergarten. “Galleria Gareboodi?” “Here!” I yell out, smiling and raising my hand in the air like I just don’t care. “It’s Galleria Gar-i-bald-i.” This boy in front of me turns around and heckles me. “Gar-i-booty!” he says, and laughs. Then everyone else in the class turns to look at me. “What?” I ask, challenging him. “What’s your name, yo?” “Derek,” he says, still smiling. “Derek what?” “Derek Hambone,” he says. “The new brotha in town—from Detroit.” “Derek what?” I ask. “Did you say Hambone?” Now the class is laughing at him, not me. “Hah! You’d best not be laughing. Your last name sure ain’t no Happy Meal.” I snarl and squint my eyes. He turns away, busted. Now I’m looking at the back of his head, which has the letters “D U H” shaved into it. “Duh?” I say to Chanel, mouthing the words without sound.
