The dinner went on.

Madison asked how much teachers made. When I told her, she gasped like I'd said I lived in a tent.

“How do you even live in Manhattan on that?”

“I live in Brooklyn.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, that makes sense.”

Trip asked if I'd brought them gold stars for finishing their dinner. Everyone laughed again. Preston told a long story about his own math teacher in high school, who he'd called “a total loser who drove a Honda Civic.”

“No offense,” he said to me.

“I drive a Honda Civic,” I said.

That got the biggest laugh of all.

Under the table, I squeezed Connor's hand. Hard. A signal. Please. Say something.

He squeezed back. Then he leaned in and whispered, “Relax, babe. They're just teasing. Have some wine.”

I didn't have some wine.

I sat there and thought about Mrs. Delaney, who drove a rusty Honda Civic for twenty years, and stayed after school every Tuesday for a failing kid from Scranton.

She was the least loser-ish person I had ever known.