The hallway of Ridgewood High buzzed with activity. Students jostled past one another, shouting greetings, shoving books into lockers, and forming little cliques Zara couldn't hope to understand. She clutched her schedule in one hand, the paper slightly crumpled from her nervous grip, and avoided making eye contact with anyone.
Zara felt like an outsider, not just because it was her first day, but because this world was so different from the one she had left behind. The brightly lit hallways, the sharp American accents, and the sea of unfamiliar faces overwhelmed her senses. Back in Nigeria, school had been simpler: uniforms, strict teachers, and a sense of belonging she hadn't appreciated until now. Here, she felt untethered.
Her thoughts wandered to her old school in Lagos. She missed the scent of fried akara from the roadside vendors during breaks, the loud chatter in Yoruba and Pidgin English, and the familiar warmth of her friends. There, she had been Zara Okoye, the confident girl who knew her place. Here, she was Zara, the new girl.
Even something as simple as seeing students in jeans and T-shirts felt strange. Back home, her uniform had been a badge of identity. Now, she had spent hours staring at her closet, trying to pick an outfit that wouldn't make her stand out. In the end, she had settled for a plain sweater and jeans, but she still felt like she didn't belong.
"Excuse me, you're in my way," a voice said sharply. Zara turned to see a tall girl with perfectly straight blonde hair and piercing blue eyes glaring at her. The girl's tone wasn't outright mean, but it carried a cool dismissal that made Zara step aside quickly.
"Sorry," Zara mumbled, clutching her books tighter.
The girl didn't respond, just flipped her hair and walked away. Zara watched her go, her cheeks burning with humiliation. Back in Nigeria, she would have had a snappy comeback ready. Here, she felt too out of place to fight back.
"Don't mind her," a voice said from behind. Zara turned to see a petite girl with curly brown hair and a kind smile. "That's Jessica. She thinks she owns the school."
"Thanks," Zara said, her voice quiet.
"I'm Mia," the girl said, extending her hand. Zara shook it hesitantly, surprised by the warmth in Mia's smile.
"Zara," she replied.
"Nice to meet you, Zara. Let me guess—new girl from out of town?"
Zara nodded. "Yeah, you could say that."
"Well, stick with me, and you'll survive. I promise."
Despite Mia's friendliness, Zara still felt out of place as she navigated the crowded lunchroom. She scanned the tables, searching for a spot to sit, but every group seemed to have its own unspoken rules. Jocks at one table, band kids at another, cheerleaders in the corner—all of them so alien to her.
Finally, she spotted an empty seat near Mia and slid into it gratefully.
"You okay?" Mia asked, her voice laced with concern.
"Yeah," Zara lied. But the truth was, she wasn't. She missed the communal lunch table back in Nigeria, where she could sit with friends and share stories about the day. Here, everyone seemed divided into their little bubbles, and Zara didn't know how to break through.
Later that night, as she lay in bed, Zara's thoughts drifted to her father. He would have known what to say, how to make her feel better. He always had a way of grounding her, of reminding her who she was.
But now he was gone, and Zara felt lost. She hated the way her mother tried to brush over her feelings, as if moving to America was just a "fresh start." It wasn't. It was a loss.
Her phone buzzed, pulling her from her thoughts. It was a text from Mia:
Mia: Don't let Jessica get to you. You're tougher than she thinks.
Zara smiled, a small spark of warmth cutting through the loneliness. Maybe Mia was right. Maybe she could figure this out.
The next morning, as Zara was rummaging through her backpack, she found a folded piece of paper tucked between her notebooks. It wasn't hers.
Unfolding it carefully, she saw a strange, handwritten note:
"If you're looking for answers about your father, meet me at the old library after school."
Her heart pounded. The note wasn't signed, and she had no idea who had slipped it into her bag. Was it a prank? A mistake? Or something more?
Zara stared at the note, her mind racing. She wanted to ignore it, to crumple it up and throw it away. But something about the words made her pause.
She wasn't sure if she was ready to face the secrets her father had left behind, but she knew one thing for certain: her journey was far from over.