Students walk past me in fancy clothes, strolling towards the entrance. It's not that my mom and I had it rough back in New York, but we weren't exactly living like this. Mom is a successful writer, my dad a UPS driver, and while our house was reasonably sized, it was nothing like the houses around here.
I suddenly have a strong desire to turn and run now that no one else is around to witness it, but I know the school will only end up calling Aunt Lilly, and my mother will be furious. This is meant to be our new start, our way of leaving our demons back in New York–I'm not about to ruin it for us.
With a deep breath, I make my way down the flower-lined path. Inside of the reception is a plush leather sofa that looks like it belongs in a furniture catalog. When I approach the reception desk, the woman behind it beams at me–a genuine smile, too, not the forced kind that they usually give.
"You must be Maddison Goodwright," she says, her face still fixed in a smile. She must notice my expression, because she adds, "We rarely ever get new students here. Everybody's been talking about your arrival for days."
I suddenly feel sick to my stomach. There go my plans to remain unnoticed. "Great," I say, pushing my hair back. "And just Maddie is fine."
The receptionist, who I learn is called Mrs. Baker, spends the next fifteen minutes going over my timetable before leading me to the principal's office. She knocks twice, waiting for a booming voice to summon us in. Mrs. Baker opens the door and pops her head inside.
"Maddison Goodwright here to see you, Mr. James." She looks over before chuckling. "Whoops, sorry. I mean Maddie."
Mr. James flashes me the briefest of smiles. "Lovely to meet you, Maddie. Take a seat."
I do as I'm told, briefly looking around his office. Trophy shelves line all four of the walls, and they're filled to the brim with all sorts of medals for various sports.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Mr. James says. "We're a very close-knit school, and we take sports very seriously here. Do you do any sports, Miss Goodwright?" He looks at me expectantly. I wonder if running from my old life counts.
"I like to run," I say, my voice sounding hoarse, though I doubt Mr. James notices. "I was actually on the cross country team back home."
"Well, that's fantastic," he says. "We're holding tryouts for the track team next Monday, along with a few other sports. It's all on the notice boards in the gym, so just pop in and have a look when you're able to."
I smile politely. "Thanks, Mr. James."
"You're most welcome. It really is lovely to see a new face around here, and I'm sure you'll fit in just fine. Did Mrs. Baker give you your timetable?" I nod and hold it up for him to see. "Great, well, you best be getting off to your first lesson then. I'll call you in here sometime next week to see how things are getting on."
Afterward, I follow Mrs. Baker out through some double doors and into the corridor. At the end, we make a right and stop in front of a door with a glass window, its blind pulled down so I can't peek inside. A familiar wave of panic rolls through me. I'm already more than twenty minutes late, which means all eyes will be on me the moment I enter.
"Now, this is Mr. Shipman's class," Mrs. Baker says. "He teaches English and he's extremely nice, as long as you get your homework in on time." She nudges me with her shoulder and smiles, so I attempt to smile back.
Mrs. Baker opens the door and steps inside, explaining to Mr. Shipman that I am the new student the entire population of West Riverly has been expecting. There is an awkward silence before Mr. Shipman tells me to find a seat at the back. I find an empty one next to June, the girl I'd met on the bus.
Thankfully, Mr. Shipman doesn't put me through the trauma of standing up and telling everyone who I am. I sit as quietly as possible throughout the lesson, studying the large bay windows and lime-colored walls with a feeling of nostalgia. I run my gaze over a few of the other students, spotting Hayden by the window. As soon as I see him, I'm averting my gaze, scared he will catch me looking.
A part of me is terrified of him. He's got this invisible barrier that seems to surround him, the kind that screams, Warning, stay away. But I keep replaying the way he'd fought the other night, and I want to know how. How did he learn to fight like that? And more importantly, how can I?
It's a stupid thought. I'm not in danger anymore; my mother and I are safe here in this gated community, but every time I think about what happened, every time I close my eyes, I see his face. And I am terrified all over again. Maybe if I can learn how to fight, I won't be so afraid anymore.
By the end of the lesson, I have wracked up enough courage to at least ask Hayden where he trains. It's a small, simple question, which I'm hoping will result in a short, quick answer.
As soon as the bell rings I'm out of my seat, making my way to his desk. I hesitate for a moment. Long enough to realize this is probably a mistake. Long enough for him to lift his head to acknowledge my existence. Our eyes connect, and for a second he just looks at me with this strange intensity, before he grabs his bag, swings it over his shoulder, and pushes right past me.
***
The house is empty when we finally get home, everything quiet, unlived in, as though Aunt Lilly spends hours each day moving everything back to its rightful place. The dishes from this morning are back in the cupboards, the counters wiped clean, as though Olly hadn't spilled syrup all over them at breakfast. Even just existing makes me feel like I am making a mess.
I head straight into the kitchen, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. Tim doesn't usually get home until around eight, and I have no idea where my aunt and mother are–probably arguing somewhere.
Dylan walks in after me, heading straight over to the fridge. He pulls out the milk carton, popping open the lid before taking a swig.
I am disgusted. "That's really unhygienic."
When he's finished drinking, he puts the milk down and flashes a boyish grin. "A little germs never hurt anybody."
I stare back blankly. "Yes, they do. They literally make people sick."
He ignores me and puts the carton back in the fridge. "Olly and I are going to a party tonight over in East Riverly. You want to go?"
I scrunch up my nose before checking my phone. Jamie and I have been texting on and off all day, but it's still not enough. I can't help but miss him. "Parties aren't really my thing," I say.
Dylan raises an eyebrow. "C'mon . . . Live a little."
Olly sneaks up beside us and laughs when I say, "But I'm meant to Facetime with Jamie in two hours and thirty-one minutes."
"Don't take this the wrong way," Olly says, "but you're kind of a square, Maddie."
"Hey," Dylan says. "The world takes all people, little brother."
I fold my arms, glaring at the pair of them. "What exactly is a square?"
Olly laughs, and both he and Dylan share a look. "It's something our dad always says about Lilly. It means conventional and boring."
I'm truly offended. "I am not a square."
Dylan furrows his eyebrows in what I consider a challenging manner. "Then prove it."