Jordyn Taylor - Dont Breathe a Word

I swear to god, sometimes the harder I try to do the right thing, the more spectacularly I end up failing. I was right on time for French, but when I get to the classroom and open the door, the desks are completely empty.

Time to pull out the trusty ol schedule and see where I messed upagain. On Monday, I sat in the wrong room and gradually realized the teacher was speaking Spanish, not French, which I probably should have deduced earlier from the red-and-yellow flag tacked to the wall. When her back was turned, I seized the opportunity to stand up, whisper lo siento to my confused classmates, and tiptoe to the door.

Strangely enough, I seem to be in the right place. Maybe Im just the first one here.

Oh, shoot.

Its Friday, which means theres an assembly in between first and second periods. I swing my open backpack onto my shoulder and run full speed down the hall, which is emptyobviously. That should have been my first clue. Breathless, I burst onto the quad, and to my relief, theres still a small crowd of navy-blue blazers shuffling up the steps of the auditorium next door. I join the back of the line all casually, as if sprinting is my go-to mode of transportation. I feel beads of sweat poking out beneath my thick, dark curls.

Id love to snag a seat next to someone I can introduce myself to. Even as an outgoing person, its been harder than expected to meet people. Well, let me clarify: I technically meet people all the timegroup discussions in class; meals in the dining hall where I plop myself down in whatever open seat I can find; the line for the communal showers that inevitably stretches down the third-floor hallway in the half hour before curfewbut its hard to actually meet people. Like, in a lets hang out and not talk about school stuff way.

Most students at Hardwick are lifers, meaning they start in the fifth grade and go all the way through; by eleventh grade, social groups are calcified like bone. Despite being the same Eva Storm who could strike up a conversation with literally anyone in New York Citya talent that came in handy when my friends asked me to charm corner store cashiers into selling me beer with my fake IDIve felt more or less invisible since Mom and Caleb dropped me off here last weekend. At Tuesdays assembly, I sat down beside a girl from my English class whod seemed kinda nice when wed gotten into groups to read scenes from Macbeth. I said, Howdy, tis me, Banquomy delivery was funny, I swearand she said, Sorry, do you mind going over there? Im saving a spot for someone else.

Shocked at her dismissal, not to mention her failure to appreciate high comedy, I had to move across the aisle to a seat beside my math teacher, Mr. Richterman, who smelled like a blend of coffee and chalk and didnt seem to recognize me.

At the top of the stairs to the auditorium, an exasperated teacher in a no-nonsense pantsuit shouts at people to tighten their ties and fold down their collars. Margot and Cassidy, please unroll your skirts, she calls to a pair of girls with their arms linked. They giggle and cry, Sorry, Ms. Pell! as their fingers fly to the fabric at their waists.

You there, with the curls! Stop!

Oh no. My foot is on the final step, and Ms. Pells laser-beam gaze is pointed at me. The other people weave around me, rubbernecking like theyre rolling by a car crash.

You cant go in there dressed like that.

Is this a prank? Some kind of Hardwick initiation? Im wearing the same black loafers, same white knee socks, and same gray kilt as every other girl whos walked through those doors. But then she reaches out, pinches the corner of my cardigan, and holds it up like the tail of a dead mouse.

Friday is formal assembly, she snaps. You need your blazer.

Ah. I figure this rule is printed somewhere in the student handbook I got on my first day, but there are a lot of rules at Hardwick (like, sixty-something pages of them), and it isnt exactly easy to keep track of them all. I know the biggieslike the aggressive nine oclock curfew every night except Saturdaybut Im hardly an expert in formal assembly regulations. Right now, my blazer is hanging off the chair in my dorm room, conveniently located on the opposite end of campus.

I, um, dont suppose youll take pity on the tragic new kid? I venture. You know, the only new student in the whole eleventh gradethe one whose mom and terrible stepdad sent her away to boarding school like a character in some depressing fairy tale.

Ms. Pells mouth forms a thin, wrinkled line. I dont take pity on students for things they can control, such as remembering a mandatory clothing item. This is how weve done things for over a century, and Im afraid you wont be the exception. Youll have to sit out on the steps today.

But

Sit, please.

There doesnt seem to be any other option, so I sit on the steps, facing the last few arrivals like a fool in a dunce cap. Finally, I hear the door shut, and Im alone: one tiny speck on a quad surrounded by the ancient stone buildings of Hardwick Preparatory Academy. I picture my loneliness multiplying, like cell division. What I could really use right now, besides a blazer, is a friend.

Maybe my problem is that I just cant summon the Hardwick spirit that everyone else seems to have. Youve got the eager beavers, who dash to the front row of every class; the student council members, who make enthusiastic announcements about upcoming social and charity events; the athletes, who strut around campus in their special team jackets; the ultra-rich kids, whose last names sound familiar during attendance because theyre also the names of buildings around campus. They all have their own deep, meaningful connection to this placenot like where I used to go in Manhattan, where everyone had their own shit going on outside school. At Hardwick, its like theyre one big happy family, and Im an intruder barging into the living room with mud on my shoes.

Well, wouldnt be the first time.

Okay, positive thoughts, please! I wont always be an outsider. Ill find someone to hang out with eventuallyright? Like... uh... that redheaded girl in math class, maybe. Jenny something.

Jenny actually seems kind of promising.

I dont have anything to go on, really. Its just a hunch. But compared to the other people Ive encountered in my first week at Hardwick, the girl with the pin-straight, waist-length red hair who sits behind me in math doesnt seem quite soI dont knowindoctrinated by this historic boarding school of ours. The other day, as Mr. Richterman went on about the point of intersection of something or other, I was staring out the window directly beside my desk when I caught her gaze in the reflection of the glass. At first, I wasnt sure if she could see me too, but then she jerked her head in the direction of the chalkboard and rolled her eyes. The moment the bell rang, she gathered her things and marched out of class, but Im certain we had a connection of some kind. Maybe Ill see if I can talk to her today.

When I walk into the room for fifth-period math, Jennys sitting in the same seat as last time. I get a better chance to look at her now: pale porcelain skin; long, lanky limbs; fuchsia lipstick that clashes with her hair, but somehowmaybe its how she leans back confidently in her chair, arm resting on the windowsillshe makes it all look so cool. Even the blazer and kilt. She looks at me without any expression on her face.

Hey, she says.

Hey.

She acknowledged my existence. After a week of invisibility, it feels like a drug. I slide into the empty desk in front of her.