The New Girl
Jesse Q. Sutanto
To my Menagerie Family, the ones who first read this book ten years ago and have believed in it ever since.
Chapter 1
The morning I’m about to leave for Draycott Academy, Ibu almost makes me miss orientation because she has to take exactly eight pictures of me in my navy-blue Draycott blazer for good luck.
Normally, I’m cool with my mom’s superstitions, but this is basically the first day of the rest of my life and we’re gonna be late, and they’ll kick me out of Draycott, and then I won’t be able to go to college, and then I’ll have no future and basically spend the rest of my life licking avocado husks for lunch or whatever it is that boomers think young people should do to get by.
“May I remind you that you’re not Chinese and that Dad never even believed in all this stuff?”
“Shush.” She takes two more pictures, counting under her breath. “Last one. Bigger smile!” After the last click, she straightens up. “I need to send these to your gong-gong. You know he’ll count, make sure I got the number eight somewhere in there.”
My frustration bleeds out in a small sigh. Ibu is right. My late dad’s dad is the exact sort of petty patriarch who would hold it against my mother if she didn’t take the right number of pictures on such an important day. Not because he cares about me, grandkid number 1724386, but because he’d grab any excuse he can to prove to the family how my dad made the biggest mistake of his life by marrying my mother—a native Indonesian instead of a Chinese-Indonesian.
As soon as she’s done, she moves with superspeed, grabbing things off the kitchen counter before rushing me out of the house like I’m the one holding things up. And then we’re off on the three-hour drive to my new school.
Draycott Academy. School for the elite, as in kids who are most definitely not me. I swear, even my new uniform knows it’s not meant for people like me; my navy-blue blazer keeps snagging on my ragged nails, and already I have a small stain on my plaid skirt. Maybe from OJ, maybe from the Javanese sugar syrup I covered my pancakes in this morning. It’s like my entire outfit is rebelling against me.
Ever since I got the offer from Draycott, I’ve been having this nightmare of being greeted by an admin who looks like she was built by an AI. Basically someone who looks like Betsy DeVos. “I’m so sorry, Lia,” AI Betsy would say, “but there’s been a mistake with your scholarship. You see, this school is a jewelry box, and you are not a diamond.” And then she’d flick me away like a piece of lint.
No matter how many times I try telling myself that I belong here, that they sought me out for track, telling me I was “the next Usain Bolt,” I can’t shake this feeling deep in my core that I’m all wrong for this place. That no matter how fast my legs are, they can never outrun my background.
The sight of Draycott Academy doesn’t soothe my nerves. The place is gorgeous, tucked into the lush, green hills of Northern California. The sloping, red roof of the school peeks over the top of cypress trees as we drive down an aggressively manicured lawn. Then the line of trees ends, and suddenly we see Draycott in all its glory; a palace masquerading as a boarding school. My mouth goes dry at the sight of the main building. It’s an eff you to the laid-back style of most Californian architecture. Tall, imposing, and so utterly extra.
Ibu slides into a parking spot, between a Jaguar and a Benz, and takes off her seat belt.
“Mom, what are you doing?” I say.
“I want to see this school. And call me Ibu. I don’t like it when you pretend you’re not Indo. And I need to take pictures for the family—”
“I’ll send you pictures!” The thought of my mom going into ridiculous, gravity-defying poses to get the perfect angle for her pictures is making me shrill.
“Oh, alright. You don’t want me here, I get it.”
“It’s not like that.” I mean, it sort of is.
Ibu smiles at me, but it’s strained. “Got you a present.”
“Really?”
She takes something out of her bag. It’s an old pair of shoelaces. From my very first track shoes.
“Wow.” It’s like a punch straight to the heart. I can’t believe she kept these tattered things all these years. “Bu—”
“I’m so proud of you.” She tucks my hair behind my ear, her eyes filling with tears. “You got your kris?”
I pull out my pendant from under my shirt. The pendant is an actual metal kris the length of my pinkie. The curvy edges are sharp enough to cut someone, so it’s always kept in a golden sheath. I’ve worn it ever since I was too little to know what a kris was. As with everything Ibu makes me do, it’s for good luck.
“Just keep it on you at all times, okay? Don’t tempt the fates. Now go before I change my mind and take eighty-eight pictures of you in this place.”
I laugh through my tears and plant a kiss on each of her brown cheeks before getting out of the car. I take deep breaths as she drives away, then I turn back to look at my new school.
I’ve seen it online, but nothing prepares me for actually being here. If this were a hotel, it’s the kind that would have bellhops swanning around with top hats and white gloves. But here, instead of a bellhop, there’s a pretty, Asian girl. She’s wearing jeans and a light-pink sweater. Why isn’t she wearing the school uniform?
Then it hits me. It’s Saturday. We don’t have to wear the school uniform today. Argh. Is there a tree I can change behind?
But too late; I’ve been spotted. The girl waves at me with a smile.
“Hi, Lia Set—set—eye wan?”
“It’s pronounced Set-ee-ah-one, but don’t worry about it. Just Lia will do.” My surname, Setiawan, has tripped up more people than the rogue step at my old school.
“Welcome! I’m Beth, your RA. I’ll show you around and help you get settled in and everything. Oh, you look great in our uniform.”
“Um, I should change out of it. I totally forgot it’s Saturday.”
“Don’t worry about it. You could take off the blazer. You must be dying in it.”
I am, in fact, dying in it. I wasn’t expecting such warm weather. Damn you, climate change. But underneath the blazer, I’m wearing a Walmart shirt with a sad rhinoceros saying, “Extinction Sucks,” and now I can’t remember what possessed me to wear this shirt today, of all days.
“Oh, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me!” I chirp, while sweat slowly trickles down my back.
“Okay, come on in, we can drop off your bags at reception. They’ll send them over to your room.”
The front doors sweep open. I step inside. And pause.
It’s impossible not to stop and gape at the main hall. It’s like something out of Harry Potter. The floor is a dark-chocolate wood draped with thick, intricate rugs that swallow people’s footsteps. On the right is a large reception desk, inlaid with rich, green leather. The reception desk people are dressed in tailored black suits and speak in low voices, which makes them seem über-important.