Caleb just laughs, which bothers me more than anything he might have said in response. It’s a nice laugh. Husky. Genuine. But my appreciation for it fades when he explains the source of his amusement. “It’s your first day?”

“Took you long enough to put that together. Homerooms are assigned by class year, Winters.”

“Well, it certainly explains why the numbers are still going up and we’re already way past 204.”

I tug my crumpled class schedule out of my backpack, unwilling to take his word for it. I skim the paper.

Damn it, he’s right.

I spin in place and start stalking in the opposite direction, down the now-empty hallway. Evidently no one else had any issues navigating what I also thought was a foolproof system.

“You’ve got a bit of a temper, huh?” Caleb observes.

I don’t answer, confirming his point.

“Seems like a stupid idea, having the two new kids wander the halls together,” Caleb offers. I think he’s trying to smooth things over with me, but it’s the exact wrong thing to say. Being labeled as a new kid is the equivalent of social suicide in the Landry educational system, the way being labeled an outsider is the equivalent of being a pariah in the greater town.

“I’m not new.” The words are heated, overly defensive.

I can feel Caleb’s blue eyes on me, and I know what he’s trying to piece together. It’s a rarity to see a new face in Landry during the fall. I’m certain he’s spent summers at his grandfather’s massive estate, observing Landry’s most prized accolades first-hand: being home to the longest-running racetrack in the country, and the longest-serving senator. The former claim to fame is the reason Landry is flooded by unfamiliar faces in the warmer months; the latter is the reason Caleb Winters will never be considered a new kid or labeled an outsider. In a town that traces lineage and tracks net worth, he’s as “in” as it gets. And he knows it, which explains the confused look on his face right now. Because even the limited amount of time he’s spent in Landry up until now has been more than enough for him to meet each member of every notable family. We both know what him not recognizing me means.

I may not be new, but I’m certainly an outsider.

If this encounter had happened more than two months ago, I probably would be bright red by now. But loss and grief have a way of painting life into starker contrasts. Small, petty grievances tend to lose their sting when your world is toppled. Cleaved. So I don’t say a thing. I let the awkward silence between us stretch and stretch, until it has draped the whole hallway around us in discomfort.