Perhaps a story?

“Genevive Adams?”

Another year of school, another first day, another horrible correction of names. “Jenny. Yes. I’m here.” The woman standing at the front of the classroom, clipboard in hand, raised her eyebrow at the noticeable impatience in Jenny’s voice, but continued down the list. Her attire included a simple black pencil skirt and a pinstriped baby blue blouse. She was a teacher, from the thin-framed glasses to the neat bun gathered on the back of her head. Jenny observed all this, then let her eyes wander about the room. Very prim, very clean cut. Jenny appreciated that: she was the practical sort of girl, unlike her mother who cursed her with the name Genevive.

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