The drive to the school is familiar until the final fork, where we bear right instead of taking the left toward town. Mrs. Cliffton is chattering on from the front seat, but I’m only vaguely aware of what she’s saying. I reach into my pocket and feel for Cass’s ribbon, my reminder that I am only passing through.
When I look up, we are nearing two stories of faded brick. I take in the high school’s cascade of wide concrete stairs, the apples and silver swords emblazoned on flags above the arched entrance, and, finally, the students themselves, milling in clusters around the stone wall that separates the grounds from an orchard. Miles’s elementary school building is barely visible just beyond it.
“I’m going to bring Miles to his new classroom,” Mrs. Cliffton says. “The principal’s office will be the first door on your right. He’s expecting you.” She reaches into the back seat to give my knee a slight squeeze. Her hand is warm. Then so are my face, my ears, my neck.
“Don’t forget that William’s always there if you need anything,” Mrs. Cliffton says as I climb out.
“Bye, Miles,” I say. “I’ll see you after.”
“It’s going to be great,” Miles says, his chin raised defiantly. I raise my hand to wave goodbye. When he waves back, I glimpse the small heart on the inside of his elbow.
Then I close the door, the car pulls away, and I am alone.
The whispers start as soon as I cross the schoolyard. I want to shake them off, but they cling to me like strands from a web as I walk up the steps and under the curved arches of the entrance. I fight to keep my gaze at eye level, but I settle on looking somewhere on the ground just ahead. It’s as though I’m watching myself under a microscope, trying my best to walk and move like a normal person. As far as blending in goes, my uniform can do only so much.
I find the principal’s office just as Mrs. Cliffton directed—?PRINCIPAL CLEARY carved into brass on the door—?and knock.
“Come in,” a deep voice says.
Principal Cleary sits behind a massive oak desk, his hands clasped in front of him. He seems to start at the sight of me, then quickly recovers. He has a high forehead, thinning brown hair, and ears that seem a degree too low. His portraits hang on three walls of the office: one of him receiving a diploma, another of him staring pensively out of a window, and another of him signing some document with an ornate pen. In each he wears the same pursed look he gives me now.
“Miss Quinn.” He gestures to a chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”
I do, tilting my arm so that I can just make out the tiny heart on the inside of my elbow.
“It’s very rare for us to welcome a new student to this school,” Principal Cleary begins. “I take it that you’re well aware of our . . . unusual circumstances in Sterling?” He leans forward.
“I am.”
“Because of these special circumstances, we have a number of rules by which you will need to carefully abide,” he says, rising. The pleats of his pants are sharp and exact. “These rules will be especially strict until you are Of Age.” He hands me a thick booklet, A Guide to Complete Variant Compliance at Sterling High School.
“And your schedule.” He slides a piece of paper across his desk. Biology, geometry, dressmaking, then lunch. Afternoon classes in English, alternating days of physical fitness and family life skills, and history. I notice a final portrait, this one smaller and given prime positioning on his desk. A younger version of Principal Cleary is frozen in time, grooming a small pink-tinted poodle.
I snort, then try to hide it in a cough, then almost choke.
“Are you all right, Miss Quinn?”
I nod, my eyes watering.
“The other students in your year are already weeks ahead of you. You’ll need to work hard to keep pace with them. We educate dedicated, diligent students in this school. Anything less will not be tolerated. Do you have any questions, Miss Quinn?”
Without waiting for an answer, he continues.
“I’ve appointed one of your classmates to ensure that you find your classes without disruption. Agatha Mackelroy was here yesterday and mentioned she’d already met you in town, so she volunteered her son, George. If you have any further questions, please direct them to him.” And with that, Principal Cleary shows me the door and closes it firmly in my face.
I stand for a moment in the hall, still facing the closed door, and pretend to study my schedule. I find Cass’s ribbon in my pocket. Students ripple around me, staring. Some whisper, and one knocks right into me, but no one says hello or offers help.
Then I hear a burst of Will’s laughter just beyond the window.
I fold my schedule into my books and follow his familiar voice out to the courtyard.
“Cliffton!”
A boy with closely shorn hair passes a soccer ball across the courtyard to Will. I lean against the metal stair railing and watch Will stop it with his foot, then shoot it back. He pulls his uniform tie from his pants pocket and loops it around his neck.
Another boy takes the ball, then passes it with too much force. The ball rolls past Will and comes to a stop at the foot of the steps, just in front of me. Will jogs toward it and does a double take. “Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” I say, and flush, remembering that the last time we saw each other, I was in my nightgown.
“Who’s the sugar, eh, Will?” the boy with the shorn hair yells. Another teammate raises his fingers to his lips in a short, shrill whistle.
Will doesn’t look at me. He calls over his shoulder, “Leave it. She’s a friend.” He reaches for the spot at the back of his neck. Then he bends for the ball and tosses it between his hands. “Is someone coming to get you?”
“So I’m told,” I say.
The other boy continues. “Looks like Will’s already marking his territory.”
Will clenches his jaw. “Hey, Peterson,” he shoots back. “Then why don’t you piss off?”
He tosses the ball in front of him and runs around his teammates in smooth, fast arcs, daring one of them to try to steal it from him. It works to distract their attention from me.
A boy appears at that moment, half jogging from the orchard to the stairs where I wait. His hair is dirty blond and sticks up as though it’s rarely seen a comb. The front tail of his uniform shirt is untucked, and his tie is slightly askew.
“Aila?” He stretches out his hand as he approaches, and I release my hold on the railing to take it.
“I’m George. We have first period together—?Dr. Digby’s biology lab—?so I’m going to show you around. Shall we go?”
“That’s grand of you,” I say. “Thank you.” I smile at Will to let him know that I’m fine, that he doesn’t have to worry.
“Well, Cliffton, looks like you’ve got yourself a real honey of a houseguest,” the boy called Peterson says loudly as I follow George up the stairs.
“Shut it,” Will says, giving Peterson a swift elbow to the ribs just as the first bell sounds across the lawn.