I’ve been in this building a total of only two times, but I know where I’m going. It takes a special type of idiot to get lost in what is essentially a cinderblock square. I don’t slow my steps until I arrive at the glass door emblazoned with black, block letters that proclaim it to be my destination.

Smoothing the wrinkled paper I’m clutching against the skin of my thigh, I hope the school secretary won’t notice the matching damp spots where my palms have been clutching the form. And also pray she won’t mention the fact my green cotton dress is close to making a mockery of the dress code. I spent the summer in ratty t-shirts and jean cut-offs. Those clothes didn’t reflect my growth spurt the way any of my “nicer” ones do.

There are a lot of things I don’t know about myself yet. But I know I’ll never be the type of person to go shopping when my world crumbles apart.

The hinges groan as I push the heavy door open, announcing my arrival to the school secretary. She glances up with a prepared smile that falters slightly when she registers my features. The curse of living in a small, nosy town. I keep my own face blank, although I’m tempted to wrinkle my nose in response to the lemon scent hanging heavily in the air. The aroma is overpowering.

“Hi. I just need to drop this off.” I rush the words out, anxious to have them expelled. Eager to be rid of this form and be one step closer to getting through this day.

I drop the sheet of paper on top of the desk she’s seated behind, trying to ignore the bold letters at the top that are just another reminder I’m now an orphan.

The secretary’s brown eyes dart between me and the wrinkled sheet. “Of course, Ms. Matthews. I’ll get the paperwork entered in the system right away.”

“Thank you.” I turn to leave, squirming in the wake of her formal use of my last name. Landry High is known for its “treat the teenagers like adults, and they’ll act like adults” philosophy, which encourages faculty to address us by our last names. I’m not a fan.

“Uh—Ms. Matthews?”

“Yes?” I take my time spinning back around, unhappy about having to prolong this interaction.

“We have a new student starting today. I just pulled up your schedule, and you have the same homeroom. Would you be willing to show—” Her question is interrupted by the wooden door behind her opening. Revealing a face I’ve never seen before. A rare statement in Landry, Kentucky; home to just over five thousand people. I’ve never seen the features before, but I know exactly who they belong to. I knew the moment the words “new student” were uttered.