2

"I'm the new student, Emma Thorne. May I have a copy of my class schedule, please?" Emma said, voice steadier than her nerves.

The woman looked up, blinked, and then smiled. A smile that was two parts polite and one part “Why are you disturbing me?” She stabbed her computer’s keyboard with her nails. The printer gave a hoot sound and she picked up the paper, careful not to smudge her fresh manicure.

"Oh, you! Of course,” she said, her fingers pinching the corner of the schedule like it might bite. “Your first class is down the hall on the left. Your locker number and combination are also on there. You shouldn't have any problem with that."

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure I will.” Emma muttered under her breath, offering a sheepish “Um, thanks, ma’am,” before stepping out of the office.

The paper in her hand was warm from the printer. Emma barely had time to scan it before,

“Hey, wait!”

She paused mid-step, almost tripping over her own boots.

The receptionist gestured toward an inner room. “The principal would like to have a word with you.”

Emma was ushered into a room so blindingly cheerful she suspected it had been designed by a colorblind toddler. The walls were splashed with various shades of yellow and blue. Behind a wide desk sat a woman with silver-streaked hair, kind eyes, and a posture so straight it looked uncomfortable. She removed her glasses like she was about to deliver a heartfelt speech.

“Good morning, Miss Thorne. I’m Mrs. Lilian Jones, and I wanted to personally welcome you to Sunshine High School.”

Emma smiled. It was her go-to “Thank you for having me but I would rather not be here” smile.

The principal browsed a sheet of paper, her lips pressing into a thin line. Emma knew that look. That paper had her name all over it along with four school names and five years' worth of her academics

“I took a look at your transfer records,” Mrs. Jones said, “and I’m a little concerned about the frequency of your school changes. According to what I see here, You have attended four different schools in the last five years.”

Emma felt the subtle rise of self-protective adrenaline in her.

Mrs. Jones continued, “I spoke with your parents. They mentioned it was had something to do with their work. But I wanted to hear from you directly. You're clearly intelligent, but is there anything, anything at all that I should know? Or that you think I should know?”

Emma blinked. Nope.

“No, ma’am. There’s nothing.”

Mrs. Jones studied her a moment longer, then nodded like she understood, “Alright, then. Hurry to your first period. I hope you enjoy your time here.”

Emma thanked her and left the room, not feeling particularly more welcome than when she entered.

Her first class was down the hall, and the hallway buzzed with early-morning chaos. Lockers clanged shut from every angle and the air was thick with the scent of floor polish and teenage body spray.

She slipped into the classroom, clutching her schedule to her chest. The teacher looked up. He was tall, slender, with black hair and eyes the pale blue of a spring sky. He smiled warmly.

"Ahh, a new student!" he said, Welcome, Miss...?”

“Emma Thorne.”

“Emma!” he echoed, rolling the name across his tongue. “I’m Mr. Matthew, your English teacher.” He winked, and Emma couldn't tell if it was endearing or slightly unnerving. “Please, Emma, take your seat.”

He pointed to a lone desk at the back of the classroom.

Here we go again. Were teachers allergic to giving her a seat in front?

She forced a smile and began her walk to the back of the class, aware of every single pair of eyes drilling into her.

Deep breaths, Emma. They can’t bite you. At least not in here.

“Poor girl, look at her shoes.”

The words were sharp and said just loud enough. Emma caught the source. A blonde girl with shiny curls layered around her face like she was in a shampoo commercial with lips so plump they looked like she had been stung with bee. She was beautiful and well, a bitch.

Emma bit the inside of her cheek and kept walking. She was wearing her best boots. A gift from Aunt Mary, her rarely-seen, high-earning lawyer aunt who probably billed people more per hour than her dad made in a month. Her boots were expensive, practical, and incredibly cool. At least in Emma’s humble opinion.

Emma took her seat. The chair wobbled worryingly. It seemed like it was on the verge of collapse.

But still better than St. Anne’s Junior School, where she sat on a table for a whole week and earned the nickname “Tab’Em.”

“Hey, Emma,” Mr. Matthew said, jolting her back to the present. She looked up. “Would you like to introduce yourself to the class? Tell us a bit about yourself? Your hobbies, favorite things? Or we could skip it for now”

He paused, giving her space to decide.

Oh, absolutely skip.

She shook her head too quickly like a child and immediately regretted it. A few students laughed. Fantastic.

“Class,” Mr. Matthew said sternly. “That’s enough.”

He resumed teaching, and Emma zoned out while pretending not to. Words floated to her but her mind wandered until she caught something about an assignment.

Wait. An assignment? On her first day? Today was not her lucky day.

"I want you to read One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest" Mr. Matthew was saying. “We’ll do individual presentations and follow-up questions. Be serious with this because it will count toward your continuous assessment.”

Emma groaned quietly. The class groaned loudly.

“Mr. Matthew,” the girl with the bee stung-like lip whined, “you just asked us to read The Great Gatsby just last month.”

“I know, Sarah,” he said, clearly unbothered.

So her name was Sarah. Interesting.

“And I believe everyone in this room is capable of reading three books a month. That’s barely one per week.”

Emma had read One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest five times. She practically had it memorized. Her Aunt Mary had given her the book with a sticky note that read: “Read this and never settle for being ordinary.”

The room filled with chatter. Mr. Matthew let them vent for a moment before going back to the lesson.

Eventually, the bell rang, sending the classroom into instant disarray. It seemed the door had become the single most important exit on Earth and everyone had to pass through it immediately.

Emma waited, not particularly in the mood to elbow her way through a stampede of teenage sweat.

“Hey, Emma,” Mr. Matthew called as she passed by his desk. “I hope you enjoyed today’s class.”

“It was okay,” she said with a shrug.

He leaned in, his voice quieter, kind. “Don’t let them get to you. You’re the new kid and some of these kids could be mean. But I assure you, you’re in the right place. You’re where you belong.”

He stepped back and gave her a wink, same as earlier. That wink was starting to feel like a brand.

Emma blinked. Um...what?

Where she belonged? He didn't know anything about her. But sure, she ‘belonged.’

She smiled awkwardly and exited before the moment got stranger.

Her next class was a blur. The teacher spoke in a voice so flat it doubled as a lullaby. More than half the class was asleep. Even Emma nearly nodded off, and she had slept at least ten hours the night before.

But finally. Mercifully, the bell rang.

Next up was physical education class, her worst course in the entire world which was to be held in the school gym. Emma was excused from participating since she didn’t have gym clothes.

She took a seat on the benches, where she watched an interesting scene. The boys ogled the girls. The girls ogled right back.

Sarah was clearly the queen bee here, dressed in a sheer V-necked top that looked like it came from a lingerie store.

Emma sighed. She could never wear a top like that. Not because of some moral compass, but because her chest would turn “cute flirty look” into “please call the fashion police.”

Okay. Maybe she was jealous. Just a tiny bit. They did look effortlessly hot. Or maybe effortfully hot. She couldn't tell.

When the bell rang again, signaling lunch, Emma practically ran to the cafeteria.

There was a line, of course. A messy queue where people cut in for friends and no one seemed to care. Eventually, she got her food and found a small table in the far corner. One that only seated two.

It was perfect and quiet.

She took a deep breath and exhaled into her mashed potatoes.

The silence lasted exactly one minute and thirty-seven seconds.