Musical chairs, but with French days of the week instead of music. I sat on a boy’s lap accidentally and the classroom banged with laughter. I leapt up from his cheap trousers, scalded, and stood in the middle with my insides brimming, brain like a rabbit thumping its foot. “Oh, um, Mardi?” I said, gripping my voice tight so it wouldn’t wobble, then rushed to the nearest seat. The teacher pronounced our names the French way, encouraged us to chant “Non, idiot!” at each other’s mistakes. After that game I feared the lessons with a hot, tearful dread too big for my small body to hold. One classroom assistant even asked me if something had happened in French class, but I shook my head. How could I explain that shame came so naturally to me? That I went home wearing it as a duffel coat, my arms aching when I tried to hang it up?