“I apologize, Mr. Val. I’m showing a new student around campus.”

Shy opens the door a little more, and now Mr. Val is visible. He has a thick, brown mustache and brown hair, and he wears a brown suit. He stands behind his desk, a piece of chalk in his hand, mid-lesson. I meet his gaze last and find him staring at me, eyes as black as a night without stars. I can already feel his disappointment in me, like he’s set the earth on my shoulders and watched it roll off into space.

The only thing that makes me feel any better is that he looks at Shy the same way.

“This is Anora Silby.”

“Ah.” He places his chalk in the metal holder, dusts off his hands, and reaches for a clipboard on his desk. “Yes, Miss Silby. Come in.”

Shy takes up half the doorway, but I brush past him. Heat rushes to my face, and I can’t figure out if it is from being on display in front of twenty students or from the slightest bit of physical contact with Shy.

“You’re excused, Mr. Savior. I’m sure if Miss Silby needs your services, she will find you.”

The class snickers. I glance at Shy as he mouths the word “prick” before closing the door. I nod, a grin growing on my face.

“Miss Silby.” My smile quickly fades, and I snap my head toward Mr. Val, who clears his throat. The students behind me laugh again, clearly amused by my awkwardness. “It’s a good thing Mr. Savior isn’t in this class. It already seems he is proving too much of a distraction.”

Mr. Val hands me something that looks more like a work manual than a syllabus and a massive trigonometry book, then directs me to one of the only seats left in the classroom—front and center. As I take it, I notice a girl with long, dark hair staring at me. Our eyes meet, but her cool expression doesn’t change. The only reason I’m okay with it is because she’s actually alive.

I pull out my notebook and try to catch up on what I missed in Mr. Val’s instruction and look through the syllabus. As if I need any more confirmation that my time at Nacoma Knight will be trying, I find that we have quizzes every day.

Sighing, I glance up to find the dead girl from Emerson Hall outside the window peering in. She apparently moves all around campus. I have seen the dead move before, but it still startles me. Her head dangles to the side, partially decapitated. Blood covers the collar of her sweater, drips from her nose and the corners of her eyes. My whole body suddenly feels prickly, like I’ve been wrapped in a blanket of spiders, their tiny legs skittering across my skin.