Mr. Thompson says something in response, but I can’t hear it over the sound of gears turning in my head, loud static in my ears.

Jack Walsh. The new quarterback. Is a girl.

A hot girl.

Well then.

-JACK-

I’ve survived another night of sleeping in my new “bed.” I’ve survived my first practice with my new team. I’ve survived my first class at my new school. At this point, I should feel like I can survive anything.

Instead, every minute of this day is just one wave of nausea crashing while another begins. If there’s one message everyone seems to be sending my way, it’s that I don’t belong here.

Tell me something I don’t know, Atherton.

Starting at a new school sucks enough. Starting at a new school where you’re walking onto their football team and replacing their beloved dead quarterback? That’s a whole other level.

Not a single guy on the team made eye contact with me on Saturday. I’d think they didn’t even know I was there, except that ignoring me didn’t stop them from whispering, each one a bigger condescending shit than the last, betting on what would make me crack. Big money was on running lines, like I don’t wake up early to run around the nature preserve every single morning. The dicks who thought their little mat drills—burpees and high-knees and push-ups—were gonna do it clearly have no idea who they’re dealing with. And while it was fun to watch them gas out and get reamed for not keeping up with conditioning, it’s clearer than ever why they pulled in someone from outside Atherton to play QB.

Class was the opposite—every single person in the room was trying to get an eyeful, judgy eyes burning through my shirt like laser beams, no one uttering a word. I woke up this morning determined to channel the nerves of steel my best friend Morgan used to march into their first day of junior high in Northern Florida and promptly declare their pronouns were they/them and they wouldn’t respond to anything else, but I can’t not give a fuck what people think about me when my being here depends on their ability to see me as a leader.

At least I didn’t let Mr. Thompson call me Jaclyn.

I’m out of my seat the second the bell rings, hoping I can grab a few minutes of texting Morgan and our other best friend, Sage, by my locker, but … huh. I thought my locker was third from the left of that bank, but that one’s covered in green paper and stripes of yellow ribbon. I definitely did not pretty up my new locker today.