next

"He has a picture of you," says this girl I know but have never met. She's nothing like I've pictured: my image relied too much on her old-fashioned name, the stories I've heard of her struggles.

"He does?" I say, surprised but again not.

"Your hair was different then, shorter," she gestures. "But he still has it," she says brightly, as she concludes the photo is old.

I nod, wondering and realizing and thinking fondly of her brother. "I always did like George." I say it because it's true, and I say it to make a connection. No reason to worry that his reputation precedes. I smile when she tells me, "I'm nothing like him," anyway. I am an older sister.

We chat about his whereabouts, poke a little fun together as we walk down the hall to do her enrollment; she'll be my student next year, along with thirteen other freshmen. Until now they were just numbers: four non-English speakers, two beginners, four special education, three in various stages with various issues. Three described to me collectively as, "the devil," one selective mute. But now I'm here, and they're just kids, kids on good behavior because I am new, and I am High School. I am happy to take advantage.

Next school year, when they show up, I won't be a stranger regardless of cousins or brothers. I'll be the familiar face who helped them that time and will help them again. It'll make a good start, and, boy, will we need it.