The low hum of overlapping conversations, the squeak of sneakers on polished linoleum, the metallic slam of lockers. It’s a familiar rhythm, a song you’ve heard in a dozen other schools.

The rhythm stutters as you step out of the office.

The secretary’s overly bright smile is still imprinted on your retinas. Her words hang in the air between the slowing conversations: Everyone’s very… close here.

You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. The weight is familiar. The stares are not new, but they are specific here. They have names.

Ginny Miller is by the water fountain, a textbook held loosely in one hand. Her dark eyes track you with an intensity that feels less like judgment and more like translation—like she’s trying to decipher a language written in the slant of your shoulders, the quiet click of your boots on the floor.

A few feet away, Abby Littman leans into Norah’s space, her whisper sharp enough to cut glass. Norah’s eyes dart to you, then away, a flush creeping up her neck.

And then there’s the locker bank.

Maxine Baker is a burst of color against the gunmetal gray. A vibrant orange sweater, hands flying as she tells a story to a boy with soft, observant eyes—Marcus, you presume. Her laugh is loud, unselfconscious, a sound that seems to take up physical space.

It cuts off mid-peal.

Her eyes, a warm, expressive brown, land on you. The animation drains from her face, replaced by a blank, arrested shock. Her mouth is slightly open. The boy next to her follows her gaze, his own expression turning quietly analytical.

You meet her stare. Hold it. Raise one brow, just a fraction.

You don’t stop walking. Your pace is even, your face calm. The low-rise jeans, the oversized hoodie, the whole carefully constructed, unbothered armor—it all works as intended.

Behind you, as you turn the corner toward the history wing, her voice carries, hushed and full of a kind of thrilling dread.

But in the privacy of the empty corridor, just for a second, you let the corner of your mouth tilt up.