Maura powers up the staircase that leads to the front door of the main building. I follow, second-guessing my every choice. I run nervous fingers through my shoulder-length dark hair, which suddenly feels frizzy. I’m wearing jeans and a basic tee, which say nothing about me or my style. At home I wore cute-as-shit dresses in bright colors, patterned rompers, and heart-shaped sunglasses, shorts with off-the-shoulder ruffled tops. An Instagram cliché. But it’s chilly up here, and all I had that felt warm enough was this, paired with a worn navy-blue hoodie. I realize I look like Bella fucking Swan. They’re going to eat me alive.

I make it inside without hyperventilating, barely registering the wide hallway and blood-red lockers on either side before Maura hangs a sharp right, sweeping us into the front office.

“Grace, how are you? I love that sweater! This is my granddaughter, Cecelia. We need to get her registered.” My grandmother is a tornado of purpose.

If Maura is a cool grandma, Grace is original flavor. Her kind eyes and her cardigan lead me to imagine she bakes a lot and would most certainly not say “fuck,” though maybe that’s more to do with her being a school secretary than anything. I find myself searching the front office for a plate of cookies.

“It’s so lovely to meet you, Cecelia,” Grace says. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll have you sorted. Thursday’s an odd day to start, but I’m sure you’ll get acclimated in no time. Maura! It’s been too long. I should tell you how Joe’s doing.”

Grace starts to recap her latest visit to said Joe, and despite her smile, an annoyed boredom radiates off my grandmother. I wander into the hallway to wait, take in my new school.

Two stories. Scuffed marble floors. There’s a trophy case with yellowing glass to the left of the front office; I lean close and do a double take. Mom, my brain screams, panic slicing through me. But the photo is too old—black-and-white—the dresses too retro, the hair too feathered. I realize it’s Maura, not my mom, in an old homecoming-court photo. She and four other girls flank a blonde at the center, who beams, crown atop her head. Next to it is that same girl’s yearbook photo and a plaque: IN LOVING MEMORY OF CAROLINE QUINN, 1953–1970.

It itches, familiar. But then Maura and Grace appear.

“Here is your schedule, dear.” Grace hands me a class list printed on crisp paper. Maura gives me a kiss on the cheek and promptly departs.

“I’ll walk you to your first class. Homeroom, actually. You are with Mr. Keating. They’ll be nearly done, and then you’ll be on your way. Don’t worry—I’ll make sure you have a buddy who can help you get where you need to go. Just show them your schedule.”