Anthony gripped his pencil so tightly that his entire hand started to pale. He noticed that where he gripped the pencil was starting to turn purple. It would've been a cool sight had he not been desperately trying to master writing his name.

It was too long! And there were way too many letters he didn't understand. He had mastered vowels and a couple letters that made sense. And the only one he could understand in his name was 't'.

"Whatcha doing?" a voice behind him demanded.

Anthony turned to see Francis Sullivan, a boy in his class, standing behind him. Nervously, he kicked his legs—that didn't come near to touching the floor—on his plastic chair and shrugged.

"Writing my name."

Francis reached over him and whipped the paper away before Anthony could stop him.

"You sure got a weird name," he squinted at the paper. "Who's Rkctra Ickr Iiaaeeou?"

Anthony pouted. "I is. But I dunno no letters outside those."

Francis suddenly smiled and tossed the paper to the ground. It swayed to the side and slowly settled on the stain-proof carpet of the classroom.

"Well," he said. "It's your lucky day 'cause I'ma gonna give you a new name, Rkctra."

"It's Anthony," he said to Francis's oversized Bonanza t-shirt. "Not Rkctra."

He shook his head. "Well it ain't gonna be Anthony or Rkctra for long. I'm a good name-giver."

Anthony stared down at his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sneakers. Michelangelo and Leonardo were nodding at him energetically. At least, that was what he saw.

"Okay," he smiled brightly.

"Awesome!" Francis pumped a fist in the air and plopped into the plastic seat next to Anthony. "Okay…um…Anthony. Tony's too boring. What d'you like to do?"

He considered this. "I like goin' to the horse tracks with my dad. He lets me picks horses sometimes and it's really neat because the racetracks are dirt and not stone or whatever the car one is because the car track is really stupid and the races are even stupider 'cause the cars ain't even alive. So I thought that was lame 'cause the horse racetrack's even cooler and all that and did I say my dad sometimes lets me pick horses? And he doesn't even get mad if I'm wrong…"

Anthony realized he was babbling and lowered his head. Francis, however, looked riveted.

"That's it!" he proclaimed. "You'll be Racetrack. And you can write it too."

He retrieved the discarded piece of paper.

"See?" he smiled self-satisfied. "It's gotta a, a e, a i, a c, a k, a t and a r. Them's the letters you got here."

Anthony—now Racetrack—leaned down. "Hey, you're right!"

"'Course I is. I'm always right," he paused. "Am…'cept for that."

Racetrack laughed. "You're weird."

"At least I don't got a horsey name!" Francis stuck his tongue out, completely ignoring that it was he who gave Anthony his name.

"At least my name's not Francis."

He pouted and kicked Race. "At least my feet touch the ground."

"At least I'm not wearing a cowboy shirt!"

"I like cowboys," Francis was offended. "They's cool. 'Specially the ones on Bonanza. I watch it with my mom."

Racetrack laughed. "You know, Francis, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

"That's from Casablanca!" Francis exclaimed. "My mom watches that everyday. I don't get it though. Someone bleached it out. There's no color or nothing."