As he finishes the last word everyone scrambles to sit down, and thank god for that, because I’m so hungry my stomach actually hurts. Right after the scraping and squeaking of chairs stops, suddenly the room explodes with noise. I jump and look around to figure out what the hell is going on. We’re not eating yet—that much is obvious. Everyone in the room is stamping their feet on the ground as hard as humanly possible, yelling and calling out at the tops of their lungs while they go. Most people are turning in their seats toward the entrance, where a beetroot-red-faced girl who looks about thirteen or fourteen rushes in, her shirt buttons all uneven and her tie untucked.

“If you’re late, you get singled out,” Molly explains when the banging finally chills out. The younger girl manages to wrench her chair free and sits down to a chorus of laughter. “She’s an idiot to be doing it on the first day. The headmaster will have it in for her now, you watch.”

Finally, it’s time to eat, and I could almost cry with happiness. Then, I could almost cry again, because the eggs are perfect, and the bacon is perfect, and the toast—well, the toast could’ve actually used a few more seconds, but I’ll take it. If breakfast is always like this, I decide, I can handle anything the school throws at me and I still won’t regret attending.

The morning’s high note continues when I find out I have Molly in my classical studies class, and we find seats together in the back of the room. Second period—modern history—I spend sitting alone, trying to ignore the long stares I keep receiving. Seriously, anyone would think they’d never seen a scholarship kid before. Molly said the uniform would blend me in, but I’m fielding contempt launched at me from every direction like missiles. Am I giving myself away somehow? Because my dark blond hair doesn’t have buttery highlights, or because my bracelet is stainless steel instead of white gold?

Or do they just see whatever it was about me that made people hate me last year at school?

In biology, I get there early so I can hide at the very back of the classroom. I cover my mouth with my hands and lean my elbows on the table, watching as the students pour in and their eyes catch on me, always hanging there for a bit too long.

Then, I see a familiar face among the sea. Rosemary enters, her eyes puffy and unfocused. Like everyone else—because I have a spotlight on me or something, apparently—she notices me. Then she hesitates, long enough that for a wild second I almost think she’s going to sit next to me. She likes me. She likes me not.

Does she even know?