“It’s excessive, I know,” Bronte acknowledges. “More than this tiny town needs. But your grandmother donated the money, so they built the best it could buy. Most of our science classes are held here,” Bronte explains as we cross the cavernous lobby. “You’re down there.” She points to a short hallway off the stairs. “I’m going up. Meet you back here after class to help you find the next one?”

“Thank you. Seriously. After Regina George left me in the dust, I thought I was screwed.”

Bronte squints, turns her head. “Regina George?”

“Amber? The girl Mr. Keating told to take me around.”

A laugh catches in Bronte’s throat. “Well, I’m happy to help. I’m sure being new sucks.”

“Do you get many new kids here?”

“Rarely,” she affirms. “Every once in a while some new idiot buys a minimansion on the shore, so it happens more than you’d think. But I’m a lifer. Born and raised. See you later!”

I say much the same and stumble off to W-2. The next few hours will repeat on a loop: Find an empty desk. Make an awkward introduction. Frowning teacher tries to locate a stray textbook, murmuring about how much there is to catch up on. Sit through forty-five minutes of a torrent of information while furiously scribbling notes. Other students type away on laptops. I didn’t know that was allowed here, and I make a mental note to bring mine tomorrow.

Bronte and I reunite before second period, where she draws me a rough map of the school and notes on it each of my classes, instantly making her my new favorite person. We end up on the same lunch, too. I skip the questionable-looking Swedish meatballs, opting instead for a veggie burger, potato wedges, and roasted squash. Bronte flags me over to her table. I hesitate on my approach. She is not the exception to the model-pretty rule; Bronte and her friends are the rule.

I see all the types: a classically handsome athlete, a preppy brunette, a hipster boho beauty, and a prototypical blond-cheerleader type I catch in profile. Probably all top of the class. My palms turn sweaty, and I double down on my grip so my tray doesn’t slide to the floor.

“Hi,” I say, addressing Bronte, who immediately slides over to make room.

“Yes! Hi! Everyone, this is Cecelia. She’s new.”

A girl to Bronte’s left curses loudly. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I totally left you, didn’t I?”

It’s Amber, from homeroom. “It’s okay,” I say as my cheeks go hot. I bad-mouthed Amber to Bronte, who is obviously good friends with her.