Chapter 2
First Bell
Elijah dropped her at the curb at 7:30. "Remember," he said, "recon first, conclusions later."
"Recon first," she agreed.
"And Amaya." He waited until she looked at him. "You don't have to earn the place. You already belong in every room you walk into."
She squeezed his hand, then got out before the moment could turn into something that made her eyes sting. The morning air was cool. Students streamed toward the main entrance in clusters, and Amaya understood within thirty seconds that Westbridge had a geography as precise as any map her father had ever drawn.
The front steps belonged to the athletes. A knot of varsity jackets held court there — boys mostly, loud in the easy way of people who had never once doubted their welcome. At the center stood a tall boy with sun-streaked hair, laughing at something a shorter boy said.
Inside, the guidance counselor handed over her schedule and a campus map. "Transfer students sit with me at lunch the first week if they'd like," she said. "No pressure."
"Thanks," Amaya said, meaning it, and hoping she wouldn't need it.
Homeroom was Room 214, AP US History first period. She slipped into an empty desk near the window. The girl beside her — curly hair pulled into a puff, sketchbook open — glanced up and smiled.
"New?" she whispered.
"Is it that obvious?"
"You have that first-day look. Like you're memorizing exits." The girl extended a hand. "Maya. With a Y. You're Amaya with an A?"
"Guilty."
"Cute. We're basically the same name with commitment issues." Maya grinned and went back to her sketch — a quick drawing of the teacher's coffee mug. "Fair warning: Mr. Delacroix cold-calls."
It was. He called on Amaya ten minutes in, and she answered cleanly, because she'd read the chapter twice the night before. A couple of heads turned. Maya gave her a subtle thumbs-up under the desk.
Between periods, the hallways moved like rivers. Amaya navigated by her map and by watching the current. At her locker — 1147, second floor, jammed — she wrestled the combination while a boy with glasses and a laptop bag waited patiently behind her.
"Twenty-two right, fourteen left, six right," he said. "They stick when they're new."
She tried it. The locker clicked open. "You're a lifesaver."
"Tariq," he said. "We have chem together third period. Save me a seat away from the Bunsen burners."
"Noted," Amaya said, smiling.
Lunch was the real test. Amaya stood in the doorway with her tray, doing recon. The athletes held three tables by the windows — the tall boy from the steps at the center, flanked by two others. The cheerleaders were adjacent, a bright cluster of ponytails. Near the back, a few students read actual books at a quiet table.
"Hey! New girl!" Maya appeared at her elbow, tray in hand. "Come sit with us before the vultures decide you're interesting."
"Us" was a corner table: Maya, Tariq, and a lanky boy with a mop of dark curls who was mid-story.
"—and that's why you never trust a substitute with a whistle," he was saying. He looked up. "Fresh meat. I'm Jordan. I do improv and poor life choices."
"Amaya," she said, sitting. "I do new-kid anxiety and adequate parallel parking."
Jordan pointed at her with a fry. "She'll fit right in."
Lunch was easy in a way Amaya hadn't expected. Maya talked about doing illustrations for the school paper. Tariq explained, deadpan, that he'd once crashed the morning announcements with a looped video of a goat. For twenty minutes, Amaya forgot to do recon.
Then the quarterback's table erupted in laughter — the sharp, directed kind. Amaya looked over. The tall boy — Brett, someone at the next table had called him — was watching her. He said something to the boy beside him, too quiet to hear, and the table laughed again.
"Ignore them," Maya said quickly. "Brett Carson. Derek and Sam are the court jesters." She nodded at the two flanking boys — one broad and smirking, the other leaner. "Rule one of Westbridge: don't give Brett an audience."
Amaya nodded, filing it away. Recon first.
After the final bell, Amaya was heading for the bus loop when she heard a version of her name.
"Hey! New girl!" Brett Carson jogged up with Derek and Sam trailing, all easy smiles. "Amaya, right? I'm Brett. Welcome to Westbridge."
"Thanks," Amaya said carefully.
"So what brings you here? Witness protection?" Derek said, and Sam snorted.
"Just moved," Amaya said.
"Cool, cool." Brett's smile didn't reach his eyes. He was studying her — her hair, she realized, the long braid over her shoulder. "That's a lot of hair," he said lightly. "You ever get it caught in stuff? Lockers, doors?"
A beat.
"Only in the jaws of small talk," she said pleasantly. "Have a good afternoon, Brett."
She walked away. Behind her, she heard Derek say, "Ooh," and Sam laugh — but it was the wrong kind of laugh, surprised rather than cruel. Maya, waiting by the bus loop, raised both eyebrows.
"What did he want?"