Everyone in my class stares at me and whispers. They’re all wondering if the rumors are true. Am I really as bad as they say? Maybe I am. 

The teacher doesn’t seem to notice that all the students are pointing at me. It’s possible that she also thinks I’m a psycho. All I want is for this class to end so that I can find some people who have never heard of me before.  

Eleven o’clock. Ten past eleven. Fifteen past eleven. And finally, twenty past eleven. It’s time for lunch.  

It takes me fifteen minutes — longer than it should — to find the cafeteria. My old school had half the number of hallways. I’m too distracted by all the new faces to keep track of where I’m going.

When I finally arrive at the cafeteria, I realize that I’m probably the only student who enrolled halfway through the school year. That means that every group has already claimed a specific table. Now I have to decide who seems least likely to reject me. 

I notice a group of people sitting at one of the tables. They look like they’re in grade ten or eleven. I know that they are a grade or two higher than me. Maybe that means they won’t know the rumors.  

“Hi,” I manage to say, in a voice higher than I intended.  

They all grab their cell phones and act too busy to hear me.  

“Can I sit here?” I ask. 

Nobody answers. I decide to sit at the edge of the table. Everyone stands up and leaves the second I sit down.  

I can see and smell many different types of food. I smell curry spices, fish, and some aromas that I don’t know. I see steaming noodles, burritos, and some strange blubbery looking things. I even see people sharing Roquefort cheese and a baguette. Last year, when I lived in a small town called Lumby, kids would have called me a fart-eater for eating something like that.  

The smelly cheese reminds me of the food I ate as a little kid in Belgium. I don’t remember much of Belgium, but I don’t think people hated me like they did in Lumby. My mom keeps telling me how diverse Vancouver is and that I won’t get bullied.  

Maybe she would have been right if it weren’t for the rumors.  

Finally, school is over for the day. All that’s left is a twenty-minute bus ride to get home.  I feel like I’ve been on the bus for ten minutes already. I check my cell phone. It’s only been three minutes.

I grab my sharpie marker and start to draw giant robots on the ugly, brown seat in front of me. I’m not sure why. I just like robots, and I’m pretty sure they’re going to take over the world one day.

My dad used to complain about that sort of thing. Technology. But I don’t think robots would do a worse job of running the planet than humans.  

“Hey, kid!” yells the bus driver. “What the heck do you think you’re doing vandalizing my bus?”  

Suddenly, the bus is quiet. Even the people at the back of the bus stop talking. 

“Sorry.”  

“Is that all you can say? How much further do you live?” asks the bus driver.  

“Not far,” I lie. 

“Lucky you. You’re walking.”  

The bus driver pulls up at the next stop, and I get up to leave. 

“What’s your name?” he asks.  

“Noah.” 

“I need your last name.” 

“Oh, uh…” I now realize that he wants to report me and that I should lie if I don’t want to get into trouble. “Smith.”

I figure that I should use a common last name. 

“You can expect a phone call from your principal this week.”  

I can feel everyone staring at me as I exit the bus.  

I have only been walking for ten minutes, and I have already seen over one hundred cars. In Lumby, I would have seen two farms and maybe a couple of cows.

One of the reasons my dad wanted to move to Lumby was because he hated traffic. He hated a lot of things, but he loved the nature and wilderness in Canada. As a photographer, he wanted to capture vast landscapes. He wanted to see a world untouched by people. And Lumby definitely didn’t have a lot of people.

Especially foreign ones.  

There’s a lot less traffic once I leave the main road. Giant trees decorate both sides of the street, but it’s January, and all the leaves have fallen off.

The houses in my neighborhood are high and narrow. A few of the homes are made from bricks, like in Belgium. Most of them look old and run-down, and I like those more than some of the modern houses.  

“Hey!” I hear someone yell. “Come over here.”  

I look around and see a girl on a skateboard waving at me. She has long black hair, and she’s wearing a black hoodie and ripped jeans. She hops off her skateboard, and suddenly I recognize her. She goes to my school. She must be in grade eleven or twelve. 

“You’re the new kid, right?” she says. 

“Yeah,” I answer.  

“What’s your name?” 

“Noah.”  

“I’m Natasha. My friends call me Tash.”  

“Hi, Natasha.” 

“Call me Tash.” 

“Oh, okay,” I say.

I look around to see if there’s a group of people filming us. Maybe she’s about to play a prank on me. 

“Do you live close to here?” she asks. 

“A few blocks further. Near Eighth Street.” 

“The bus drops you off there, you know.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“Did the bus driver kick you off the bus?” 

“Well, I—” 

“He kicked you off the bus,” she says with a proud smile.  

“How do you know?” 

“Because he’s a grumpy old man,” says Tash. “Do you skateboard?” 

“No.” 

“Want to?” 

“Sure,” I say, wondering why the heck this older girl wants to hang out with me.  

“I have another skateboard. Follow me.” 

I hesitate for a second because I know my mom is expecting me to be home soon. I quickly text my mom and tell her that I’m going to be home later than expected.