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back in a field off Garibaldi Avenue. Assunta pushes open the door. “Wait inside until the bell rings. It might be a while before someone gets here since school doesn’t start for an hour. They’re expecting you, so give them your name in the office. They’ll tell you where to go. I’m working at the end of Front Street, that’s one block from here. If you need anything, I take lunch from noon to twelve-thirty. I’ll pick you up at three-fifteen. School is out at three, so wait right here.”
    “I will,” I promise. I watch Assunta walk up the block. Once she is gone, I go into the school. How wide the corridors are! I walk downthe main hallway. The terrazzo floor, with its black, white, and gold flecks, has been waxed and almost glitters. I breathe in the smell of fresh pine and waxy wood and chalk. I can see the shadow of my reflection in the shiny pink tile on the walls. A series of doors that lead to classrooms line the sides of the hallway, and I peek in each one on my way to the office. How pristine every detail is—the clean chalkboards and the desks in neat rows.
    “What are you looking for?” a man’s booming voice bellows.
    I jump at the sound. “The office,” I stammer, turning around to face him. When I look up at the man, I realize that he’s a friend of Papa’s. I recognize his handlebar mustache from the hog killing. “Mr. Ricci?”
    “You’re a Castelluca,” he says with obvious surprise.
    “Yes, sir. I’m Nella.”
    “Well, I’m the janitor here. Your pop never said one of you was coming to school here. Did you take the trolley?”
    “We walked. My sister Assunta is working at the blouse factory on Front Street.”
    “Walked! That’s almost three miles.”
    “It wasn’t so bad.”
    “You have a long wait until the bell rings. Come with me.” Mr. Ricci takes me into the boiler room, where he has set up a small table and chairs. He pours some hot milk from one thermos and a splash of hot coffee from another into a cup for me. He puts two heaping tablespoons of sugar into the cup and stirs it. He gives me the cup and makes the same for himself, only with more coffee. I reach into my lunch pail and give him the box with the cream puff.
    “From my papa,” I tell him. “He would want to thank you for looking out for me.” Mr. Ricci opens the box and smiles.
    “We’ll share.” Mr. Ricci cuts the cream puff in two, giving me the larger piece. “I have a daughter about your age in school here. Concetta. We call her Chettie.”
    “I’m in ninth grade, at least agewise. I went to seventh in Delabole.”
    “Chettie will show you the ropes. You got a good teacher too. Miss Ciliberti.”
    “She’s Italian?”
    “Oh yes. You have four Italians teaching here. Too bad I didn’t bring Chettie out to the hog killing. You two could have gotten to know each other.”
    “I’m sure she’ll be a good friend,” I say. He smiles at me just like Papa does when I say something that pleases him.
    Mr. Ricci doesn’t say much more. He finishes his coffee and pastry, and then he goes about his chores. When the bell rings, I go to the office, where they sign me in. Mr. Ricci was right: I am sent to Miss Ciliberti’s class at the end of the hallway. As I walk in, the students are laughing and talking around their desks. I go to the teacher and give her the envelope from the office.
    “Nella Castelluca?” Miss Ciliberti smiles, but it is not a warm smile like Miss Stoddard’s. It’s more businesslike. Her dark brown hair is bobbed close to her head. She is a small woman with a determined jaw.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “So, you’re skipping eighth grade?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I’m fourteen. But I’ve gone ahead and read all the required books through grade eight.”
    “Such as?” she asks impatiently.
    “Walden by Henry David Thoreau. The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë, Jane Eyre by Charlotte