A slight nod, no softening in her expression. “So, I’m Bree.” She points to the girl beside her. “That’s Sage.”

Sage. A gymnast’s build, tortoiseshell glasses, her hair a lob ombré’d from deep brown to platinum. She wears trendy hot-girl clothes—skinny jeans, a lace-trim cami—and a flannel boyfriend shirt over it all. Boyfriend because it’s huge on her, maybe XL, in shades of brown and green, washed and worn to a soft patina.

When Sage grins, it’s forthright, devilish. “How’re you liking the Terraces so far?”

“It’s”—I scan the identical cube houses lining the cul-de-sac, shabby little three-family units, each with a shared parking area and a strip of backyard facing the woods—“very beige.”

They laugh, a relief, but Bree’s gaze is still sharp. “Why’d you come here?”

Typical accusatory question. One thing I’ve learned, moving from one dying town to the next: everybody in a place like this thinks they’re being held hostage. “My dad’s working the mill demolition.” Their dads are probably on unemployment, now that Pender isn’t making paper anymore.

“Oh. The wicked-built guy with all the tats?” Bree bumps shoulders with Sage, says to me, “We were watching out the window when you moved in.”

“No shit. You get to call him daddy?” Sage cackles. “Luck-y. He could tuck me into bed anytime.” She sees me flinch, glances at Bree. “Too far?”

Bree measures a half inch between thumb and forefinger as the school bus stops at the curb, all shrieking brakes and groaning hydraulics. We clomp on board into a funk of stale air, old vinyl, and spectral puke from bus rides past. I swing into the first empty seat. The girls choose the seat across the aisle. Bree raises her voice over the din: “What’s your name?”

“Clara.”

She considers. “How about Clarabelle?” She glances at Sage, who shrugs approval.

I can’t tell if they’re joking. I look at the floor, Sage’s block-heel mules and Bree’s canvas sneakers together, my leopard-print skimmers keeping their distance.

Pender District High is a cinder-block bunker with low, grimy windows that open on cranks, and rows of battered purple lockers. A mural of the sweater-wearing, steam-snorting mascot consumes the wall by the office, gift of the class of ’18. Go-o-o, Raging Elks.

Bree and Sage are sucked away into the major artery of the place, and then there’s just me, Clara Morrison, Human Conversation Piece, the girl who’s starting school on a Friday, over a month late, with her hair a dye-kit disaster, a mess of reddish-green streaks in hair faded yellow with lightener. I pretend I can’t feel the eyes on me as I circulate through the usual manic pre-homeroom buzz, searching for room six so I can be marked present. In body, never in spirit.

First-day highlight reel: