Class Act

by Kelsey Rodkey

Genres: YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Perfect for fans of Elise Bryant and Katie Cotugno, this fake-dating YA rom-com from Kelsey Rodkey set at a high school election shows that in matters of the heart, you have to elect to be yourself.

Ella knew transferring to a new school wouldn’t be easy. The first day, while defending her sister, Ella makes an enemy out of the student council president and lands in detention. Swearing revenge on him, Ella will stop at nothing to unseat him—even calling for a redo election in which she’s the only one brave enough to run against him.

As a new student, Ella isn’t sure she can secure the votes until she meets unfailingly flirtatious Patrick and hears his wild idea to help her. He’ll pretend to be her boyfriend and show their classmates that she and her ideas for the school aren’t so bad. It’s like something out of her sister’s fan fiction.

But when their fake romance starts feeling too real, and Patrick’s true motives for their arrangement come to light, Ella has to decide what’s more important: Patrick or the polls.

Release date: October 1, 2024

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 352

Sample

ONE

We might as well be at a funeral with how dead the restaurant is.

Sunday nights are notoriously slow, practically reserved for just the Ashes regulars, which is probably why my parents assume I can multitask well enough to waitress and watch Connie. Tonight I almost had the guts to remind them that they had no problem leaving me alone—to watch Connie—when I was her age, but instead, I accept the challenge they don’t realize they’ve issued and threaten my sister within an inch of her life if she dares to move from her booth without my permission. Not that she even noticed. She’s been staring at a blank Word document on her laptop screen for . . . about three months now. I’ve discovered that writer’s block has a lot of the same symptoms as depression, but it’s a thing that’s hard to bond over, so I keep my observation to myself and instead play a game to see how many straws I can sneak into her drink whenever I pass by. I’m up to nine.

A little after eight o’clock, I begin wrapping up my five-hour shift by counting my tips. It takes all of about three seconds, sadly. I start kneading away the migraine that has been slowly forming behind my eyes all day when, across the restaurant, my sister stops glaring at her computer and reaches for her drink. It’s down to the dregs, but she doesn’t realize or care and only snaps out of her daze when she struggles to get her mouth around any of the straws I placed in there. She blinks at her glass, confused. I pocket my cash and refill her soda from a can I grabbed out of the staff refrigerator.

When I set the new cup down in front of Connie, she pulls the drink closer without thanking me or asking about the straws, but that’s no surprise. Being an older sister is often a thankless job, and one where my attempts to amuse the both of us go unnoticed. At least until the younger sister is, like, twenty-three, I’ve heard.

Almost immediately after taking her first sip, she recoils, holding the glass at arm’s length. “What is this?”

“Caffeine-free. We have school tomorrow and, at this rate, you’re going to be awake until you’re old enough to vote.”

I don’t really want to think about school, but its looming presence is hard to avoid this close to the first day. The entire past week has been dedicated to getting our uniforms in order, making sure we have the right supplies and rented the correct digital textbooks. I can’t walk into my bedroom without smelling fresh erasers and being reminded of the ticking clock. And it wouldn’t be a big deal if it weren’t Connie’s freshman year or our first year going to school together since elementary . . . or an entirely new school for the both of us.

There’s so much extra pressure this year that I’m ready to snap.

Table eighteen bursts into laughter, grabbing our attention. It’s the last of three remaining tables in my section and seats a few kids around Connie’s age. She tenses.

“Do we know them?” My eyes focus on the table, and the panic starts first. It’s what always starts first.

Then the resentment, building deep in my gut, only to be slashed by—

The guilt.

All the usual feelings Connie brings. Being an older sister is not only thankless, but it comes with a lot of emotional baggage that absolutely no one warned me about. The biggest bag—it absolutely has to be checked preflight—is the one that holds everything bad that happens to your younger sibling that makes you feel like you could have stopped it and it’s all your fault that you didn’t.

“You don’t,” she says quietly. She places her fingers back atop the keyboard but doesn’t type. “They’re from school.”

My heart jumps in my throat. That’s all she really needs to say. I focus on the three of them: one girl and two boys, all white, and all smirking in my sister’s direction.

“I’m going to say something.”

“No,” Connie whispers, her hand lashing out to circle my wrist. “No. It’s fine.”

“It’s not. They’re—” They’re laughing at her. But she knows that, obviously.

“They’re paying customers, and Dad will kill you if you upset them.”

“Technically, they 

haven’t paid yet.”

Her eyes plead just as much as her voice. “Ella. Leave it.”

I will. For now.

I shake it off and head into the kitchen to officially close out the remaining tabs and catch the tail end of another “disagreement” between my mother, Ashley, the main attraction here at Ashes, and her two protégés, a.k.a. Taylor and Andrew.

“That is not what I meant,” my mom says exasperatedly to Andrew. She uses the backside of her hand to push a stray piece of blond hair away from her eye. “You’re overcooking it. Taylor, do you see?”

They both lean over a pan and then stare blankly at Mom.

“Hello?” she says heavily. “Anyone home?”

My mom is not an unkind person. She’s under a lot of stress—even more so in the last few years, as she has dedicated a lot of time to mentoring two apprentices per year to learn under her—and it doesn’t always come out in productive ways. Ashes is my parents’ third child, as they annoyingly like to say, and definitely their most problematic. It wasn’t until recently that the tides turned in their favor and gluten- and nut-free and vegan foods became so popular (in Pennsylvania). It’s my mom’s whole Thing in the culinary world, and she refused to change even though everyone told her to branch out into a broader space, at least at the beginning of her career. She demanded the world change for her instead.

It’s admirable but has always felt a little far-fetched and risky, and a lot exhausting. When I’m old enough to have a full-time job, I want it to be something I can leave at work by the end of the day, not something that becomes my whole entire life. Plus, I’m much too unmotivated to pave a way instead of taking the road that’s already traveled.

“I see,” Taylor says, while Andrew nods.

“Sorry,” Andrew adds.

As gently as possible, my mom tosses the pan to the back burner, metaphorically and literally. “Clean up, please.”

As they do, she passes behind me and mutters, “—in over my head. I can’t do this again. I’m not doing this again.”

In the past, the chefs who have left my mother’s care have gone on to great things. While it’s clear that won’t happen this time, I guess it’s an honor in its own for Andrew and Taylor to leave next summer having destroyed my mother’s will to go on (or ever teach again, apparently). Andrew, a cousin’s cousin or something of my mom’s, is especially terrible at all things food. He’s only here because he refused to go to college and this was some compromise he came to with his parents. I’m not sure how my mom got roped into it, but she swore off all distant family favors after Andrew’s first week.

I snatch the printed receipts and watch as my mom pulls her famous Have It Three Ways Cake out of the oven. Physical presence in the restaurant might be on the lower side right now, but we always get last-minute take-out orders for this on Sundays. If they add ice cream to the order, I personally refer to it as the Sundae Scaries instead of the mouthful that is Have It Three Ways Cake. It was the first thing my mom ever named herself, and it sucks like it. She really hasn’t gotten any better at naming things since then.

Back in the dining room, I intend to drop the receipts off, first to the family of

three having a late dinner that another waitress served before her shift was over, then to the older couple whispering to each other in the corner, and then to the little douchebags from Connie’s school, but I notice that their table is empty.

They’re surrounding Connie’s booth.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I clench the receipts in my fist and march over.

“Something I can help you with?” I ask without waiting to hear what they’re saying.

The girl turns to me, her copper hair in stark contrast to Connie’s and my pale blond. “No. We’re just talking to a friend.”

The two guys start laughing again, this time clustered around me—douchebaggery in surround sound. One has freckles across his cheeks and nose, and I want to punch him once for every single one.

I offer their receipt instead. “Here you go. You can pay by scanning the code, or I’ll take payment as soon as you’re ready.”

I hate how polite my voice is, like I’m still hoping to get tips from them, but it’s just that this politeness has been ingrained in me from three years of working here. I’m actually pissed.

“Sure,” the girl says, taking it. “We’ll get to it.”

She and the boys turn back to Connie, who doesn’t even shoot me a glance, and says, “Please? We’re big fans of your work.”

Your work.

My insides chill.

I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt, just this once, and assume they are not total assholes. Positive, peppy, delusional Ella can convince herself that these three are actual fans of Connie’s work, that they follow her on whatever fan fiction sites she not-so-anonymously-anymore publishes to, and they are not being antagonistic little shitheads.

“Connie,” I say loudly, pushing through the barricade they’ve formed around her booth, and smack my palms against the table. “Do they like Avenged?”

Connie’s favorite ten-seasons-and-counting show, Avenged, is about all the fridged significant others and family members who died to further superheroes’ character development living in the same alternate reality and becoming superheroes themselves.

I can tell from their snickering behind me that they do not like Avenged and they are not fans of her work.

“We love Connie’s writing about Avenged,” the girl says with a smarmy smile. “We were asking her if she’d read some for us.”

“We saw her writing it all night,” Freckles chimes in.

The final guy reaches

for her laptop and pulls it off the table. Connie is on her feet as quickly as I can turn around.

“This is just a blank page,” he says disappointedly.

“Sucks,” Freckles mutters. He heads back to his seat.

“Well, if she won’t read us something new . . . ,” the girl starts. She pulls out her phone and plays a video.

I yank the laptop from the boy and set it on the chair behind me. Connie freezes up, one muscle at a time, as her own words from the spring talent show last school year come out of the phone’s speaker. Some absolute jerk had found Connie’s fan fiction account and read from her work in progress to the whole school without her permission.

She hasn’t written anything since.

Connie shuts down even further, grabbing and closing her laptop, sliding back into the vinyl booth, and staring into space. I often think of my sister as the baby she was the first moment I saw her. Tiny, unprotected, naive.

I think of the newborn version of her when I whirl around and smack the phone out of the girl’s hand. It goes skidding across the floor and slides underneath the family of three’s table. The girl gasps, standing still in shock, and I knock my palms into her shoulders, trying to push her away. Instead, my wrists crack painfully and audibly, and she trips over her own feet trying to get away. She stumbles back onto the ground, hair spread beneath her like a flame.

“Ella, stop,” Connie hisses from behind me, but the damage is done.

The redhead looks up at me as I tower over her, anger oozing from my pores.

I’ve never punched someone, though I’ve thought about it a lot and dreamed about it even more, especially after the talent show. After I saw how mortified my sister was. My therapist said that’s because I have a lot of repressed feelings, but if I talk about them with her, are they really repressed? I don’t know; it feels like a gimmick to get me into more therapy sessions.

I don’t punch the girl. Of course I don’t punch her.

The boy who stuck around helps her up, and without paying, they all scramble to the door. I could chase after them for their money—they either live close or have to wait for a ride anyway if they’re Connie’s age—but it’s not worth it.

“I am so sorry,” my dad says, having come into the dining room at just the wrong moment, apparently, and addressing the remaining tables in his official Owner of Ashes voice. The man’s face is ghost white and appalled. “Your meal will be comped tonight. I’m so sorry for the scene. Ashes does not condone any type of violence.” He turns away from the table and glares at me. He’s always been really good at showing up when I’m at my worst.

He grabs Connie—who grabs her laptop—and me—barely managing to grab my dignity—by the elbows and drags us back to his office tucked away next to the kitchen.

It smells like French vanilla in here, like usual.

“Why?” he asks, 

exhausted. He sinks into the chair behind his desk while Connie and I fall onto the worn leather couch in front of it. I take turns rubbing each of my wrists, wishing I had an extra hand to work the tension from my forehead.

“Ask Fists Fitzgerald over there,” Connie says, gesturing to me with a look of disgust on her face. “I told her not to—”

“Did you even know those kids? Why were you letting them talk to you like that? What were their names? They’re banned from Ashes.” I turn to my dad for confirmation. “They’re banned. They were—did you even know them, Connie? You just sat there and let them—”

She adopts this sour look on her face that tells me she’s about to rant. “No, I didn’t know them by name. You went to that middle school, too; it’s huge. Did you know everyone by name?”

Our dad looks between us, his lips a thin line. Then he exhales through his nose and faces my sister. “Connecticut, can you please go wash some dishes?”

She bristles at the use of her full name, and I don’t blame her. “Can I leave my laptop in here?”

“Yes.”

She slides it across his desk and stomps out of the office, like she thought he’d say no and therefore not having somewhere to put her prized possession would mean not having to do the dishes. The way her mind works sometimes, seriously.

She mutters something about unpaid child labor before the door slams shut.

“You get a hefty allowance,” he calls after her. Then he sighs. “Delaware.”

Yes, we’re literally named Connecticut and Delaware—after our parents’ birthplaces. Dad’s from Delaware and Mom’s from Connecticut. Now we’re in Pennsylvania. “Why weren’t you watching her?”

I let the tiny buzz of the neon-red Ashes sign behind his desk fill the room, and then I begrudgingly answer. “I was working.”

I refuse to give him more until he thanks me for standing up for Connie.

He pulls his thick-rimmed glasses off his face to meet my eyes directly. “You really need to make sure you’re setting a good example for her. Tomorrow you’ll be starting at a new place for both of you, but this is her first time in high school, period.”

“I obviously know that.”

“You’re not acting like it. How would you feel if Connie had pushed that girl?”

“Proud. They were bullying her. Again.”

“Ella.”

“I think it’s a little ridiculous for you to lecture me about setting a good example for her when I just set the best example for her.”

His exhaustion turns to disdain as he straightens. “And here I was about to let you off the hook.”

“Dad—” It comes out more clipped than I expect. I can’t explain to him how

frustrating it is to be told to watch Connie all. the. time. I haven’t had a moment to myself since I was three. Why am I being held responsible for her actions? I mean, sure, I kind of pushed that girl to the ground and maybe damaged her property, and Ashes probably has some kind of lawsuit on their hands if this girl doesn’t realize she was in the wrong here, but I was defending my sister, which is what he and my mom always encourage me to do. Protect her.

And now I’m feeling bad because I’m blaming Connie for something her classmates did to her. Former classmates. At least with the new school, there won’t be old problems anymore. It’s a fresh start for her and a fresh start for me. I can use it as a trial run for college, test out a new personality or something, because the one I’ve got now either lands me in trouble or isolates me.

I just keep it all in, though. He’s right. If I hadn’t let her out of my sight to begin with, I wouldn’t be here now.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I drop my head back onto the couch. I swear there’s a divot here from the other times I’ve been in this position. It welcomes me with metaphorical open arms. “What’s my punishment? Am I fired?” I shoot up. “Am I going to be arrested?”

His demeanor shifts back into boss mode. “I’m assuming since they ran out on the bill, and were harassing my child, they won’t be telling anyone about what happened.”

I nod, stomach clenched tight.

“Head to the kitchen for dishes—let Andrew and Taylor go home early. One outburst is enough for tonight; I don’t need your mother melting down, too.”

In hindsight, it was too optimistic of me to think he’d let Connie and me go home early; there’s only so much trouble Connie can get into if she’s holed up in her room, after all. The internet might be a scary place, but as long as her body stays physically in the house, I can’t be held that responsible for whatever shenanigans she gets into.

He grabs papers on his desk that he’s previously shown no interest in and shuffles them so they fall in line, like he wants me to do. To my parents, I am first and foremost an employee. “You’re dismissed.”

TWO

My punishment does not end when the dishes are done; it carries over to the next day, all the way to the drop-off line of Connie’s and my new school.

As far back as I can remember, my mom’s been a late sleeper, so it’s a bad omen that she wakes up and insists on driving us. She says she wants to see us off for our first day, but what she actually wants is to ply us with her newest dish and wring our brains dry for feedback on it in a place where we can’t escape. She wants “youthful” palates to give her “opinions” on a possible brunch option, which just means she wants praise—none of which I can give her, especially not at seven fifteen in the morning when I’m wearing a light-blue polo the color of my antidepressants with the Courtland Academy crest over my heart like I’ve sworn my fealty to it before ever stepping foot inside.

I don’t know what’s worse: gulping down monstrous bites of this gluten-free croissant stuffed with veggies and vegan eggs and bacon to get this whole exchange over with or angsting over starting a new school where the only friend I’ll have is my little sister.

Not that it will be much different from my previous school year. My social circle wasn’t exactly full to bursting.

I’m not some social pariah or anything; I’ve just struggled in the friend department ever since my depression came to the surface. I’ve done a lot of work in managing it, and I’m quite functional, if I do say so myself, but part of my therapist’s treatment was taking a break from social media because doomscrolling and comparing myself to everyone else’s online personas became a lot for me, especially so early in my formative years. I took that course of action very seriously and then never returned. I do still see things online, but I’m often lacking context, and that makes it harder for me to relate to people my age. With every missed joke and trend, I’m building a wall between us.

“Croissant’s too dry.” I get some satisfaction in knowing it pains my mom that I can’t eloquently express my thoughts on food. It’s food. I took the same health class Connie did, but my understanding of calories is constantly overshadowed by her purple prose aimed at whatever my mom’s latest recipe is. I can say that it tastes good or it doesn’t, but that’s not what my mom’s looking for.

“It’s flaky,” Connie and my mom say at the same time. I hate being in confined spaces with the two of them. It’s like they morph into one extra-intolerable person. My dad and I are close, but nothing like this.

“It doesn’t go down smoothly,” I reiterate, turning toward Connie where she sits in the back seat, still buckled.

“Well, that’s because you ate it in two bites,” my mom says. “Usually a good indication, but . . .”

“Weird, considering she didn’t like it,” Connie finishes, her tone teetering into teasing.

Students scramble to claim available parking spots and get into the building before the first bell. There are too many cars, too many people. I thought a benefit of this school was the supposed smaller class sizes, but I think we got duped. Is it really possible that this many people’s parents are willing to pay an arm and a leg for their kids to go here, just to be squished into the halls like sardines in a tin? I know the tuition affords the school more things than my public school offered, including chances to award scholarships at the end of senior year, but why not just . . . save that money and know that it’s going directly toward your own child instead of thrown into a pool to be given to whoever?

“I liked it, Mom,” Connie says. “Wish I had some more to share with my classmates.”

Connecticut Parker-Evans: people pleaser. At the age of seven, she begged for a functional child-size kitchen to indulge my mom and has since become so good at baking that she has taken control of our holiday cookie extravaganza, while the most I can contribute is curly bows when I package them. I swear my paper cuts from the personalized cards we mailed with them still haven’t healed. Nor have the emotional wounds that about half of them “accidentally” went out with my mom’s and sister’s signatures scribbled over mine and Dad’s. Dad couldn’t care less and Mom was too absorbed in rereading the latest Food Network

article on her rise to fame to really notice. She, and I quote, “makes dietary restrictions for everyone in a good way,” according to them.

My mom inches closer to the back entrance of the school, barely a foot away from the bumper of the Subaru in front of us. I can’t take this slow pace, the dread that builds up inside me, so I grab my backpack strap and unbuckle my seat belt. I’ve never had to switch schools before and I’m sure—absolutely positive—that the first day will be the worst, and the sooner I start it, the sooner it will end.

“Wait, Ella,” my mom says. She eases up on the brake and the car creeps forward again. “The email said—”

“Why can’t I just get out now?” Unlike the kids at my old school, the students here don’t seem to be congregating outside before class, and it’s making me anxious to find my locker and first class.

My mom moves us up a smidge and finally throws the car into park. “Okay, Connie, you can go. Have a wonderful first day. You’re a star. I love you.”

Instead of being embarrassed or rolling her eyes, Connie smiles brightly and slides out of the back seat. I wait until she clears my door to open it, but my mom latches onto my elbow, stalling me.

“Keep an eye on her—”

“I know.”

“Be a good influence for her—”

“I know, but if you want that, I probably shouldn’t be late. So . . .” I nod toward the school and watch her fingers release my arm one by one. “Thank you. Love you. Bye.”

I hate the small part of me that wants her to want me to linger here. I hate the smaller part of me that can admit I’m terrified of leaving this car.

“Bye, sweetie. I love you. Have a good day.” She barely waits for me to close the door before she zooms off and leaves me in completely unfamiliar territory.

I didn’t have to transfer to Courtland with Connie. It was my choice—heavily influenced (read: guilted into) by my parents—and all the pros outweighed the cons when I jotted down a list on my iPad. Smaller class sizes and more attention from teachers, scholarships, great reputation, more student-funded activities, clean slate, blah blah blah. But the biggest pro, if you ask my parents, was that I can keep an eye on Connie.

Except. I’ve lost her already.

Most people hurry past me and into the brick building, but some slow when they see me and outright stare. It’s made clear from the moment my foot touched down on the sidewalk that I am an invader, a fat girl parading around in their uniform with hair I shouldn’t have gotten cut this short and knee socks that won’t stay up without strangling blood flow to my calves, and I am not welcome here. I’m a cheap cosplayer.

I guess smaller class sizes should have been in the cons, too.

I throw my backpack over my shoulder, take a deep breath, and step inside.

A singsongy voice that is way too perky for the hour slams into me like a wall. “Dela-where have you been all morning? We’re going to be

 late.”

I blink, focusing on the girl in front of me. She is perfect in just about every sense of the word. Her dark brown hair curls away from her round face in luscious waves, and the pale blue of her polo doesn’t wash out her tan skin but instead makes it appear richer and smoother than what should be humanly possible. Her skirt is rolled several inches higher than dress code and lies flat over black tights. She finishes the outfit off with black Doc Martens. Again, perfect.

“Oh my god,” I breathe, at once happy and nervous. I recognize her somehow, even though she is so different from when I last saw her. “Estefania?”

“No, no no no,” she corrects quickly, stepping forward and pulling me into an awkward hug. “Stevie. It’s Stevie now. Este just reminded me of my grandmother. It was literally her name first.”

Estefania Hernández. We were friends in middle school and freshman year, just two girls in the same group of almost-friends, but not, like, best friends. When she didn’t show up for sophomore year at Cedar Heights High School, I just assumed she moved away—farther away than this—and then, well, I had an embarrassing lack of close friends to focus on and never thought of her again. I had no clue she went here. She’s a sight for sore, worried eyes.

“Welcome to Courtland Academy! As a means of fluffing up my college apps, I volunteered to be a welcome guide. When I saw your name, I knew I had to have you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I get out of my classes five minutes early to meet you at yours for the whole first week; don’t you dare take this from me.” She pulls her phone from a pocket in her skirt that I’m pretty sure I don’t have in mine. I wonder if they’re only in the straight sizes or if she added them herself. “Gives me more time for content.”

She leans into me

and aims the front-facing camera at us. “Say ‘Harvaaaard.’”

She snaps a shot as I’m cringing away.

“You want to go to Harvard?” The Este—Stevie—who I remember was motivated by nothing and no one. She barely raised her hand for attendance and only removed her head from her hoodie when every single one of her teachers had begged through frustrated sighs. I almost want to laugh.

“God no, but I found out that the word creates the perfect smile.” She flicks to her Instagram page, where row after row of perfect selfies provide evidence of this. “You should follow me. I’m on TikTok, too—@StevieSays. It’s basically a nicer Gossip Girl knock-off where everyone knows I’m Gossip Girl, but still. I’m making a play for 5K by the end of the year. It’s been a slow grow since the content is so specific to my audience.”

As she rambles and I sort of listen, she links her arm through mine and drags me farther inside, waving and greeting random students. I was under the assumption that all schools smelled stale and thick, but this one is cleaner, crisper, and the floors aren’t permanently scuffed, maybe because we’re required to wear certain shoes with this uniform.

“Did you happen to see my sister come through? Did her guide . . . guide her?”

It’s a useless question. It’s clear Stevie doesn’t see much happening when she has her phone out. She’s only navigating the hallways right now by sheer muscle memory and probably something like echolocation.

“Isn’t it disgusting that your sister goes here, too? The last time I saw her was at your thirteenth birthday party and she was basically in diapers. I feel ancient.”

“She was in elementary school—”

“Basically sucking on the mommy milkers still.” She slides her phone back in her pocket—I’ll have to ask her about that—and stops next to a locker. Mine. “I didn’t notice her, but her guide is Sasha, a sophomore and very fashionable, uses big words. She’ll be fine.”

I stop myself from worrying about what kind of trouble Connie can get into only long enough to focus on my lock combination. Last year, I had the entire school day to escape from it all. I literally couldn’t get lectured for not looking out for Connie when she was physically at another school. Even my parents had to admit that was asking too much of me.

Didn’t stop me from feeling guilty that she was apparently being harassed by her classmates, though.

But that’s why I’m here now.

I work the dial but the mechanism doesn’t give; I swirl it again.

“Let me help,” Stevie says, pushing me aside with her hip. “The locks are the oldest thing in the school besides the meatballs in the cafeteria. Sometimes they need a little love.”

She slams a fist into the upper right corner and shoves the lock; the door bounces open, nearly taking me out in the process.

I have no books to carry—Courtland Academy prides itself on being a nearly paperless school—so I’ll be getting a brand-new MacBook Air in homeroom instead of any textbooks, and all assignments will be given through the Courtland Portal and completed online. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to be getting a nicer computer than the used and abused Chromebooks I rented from my old school. The price of the MacBook is built into the outrageous tuition, so it’s not exactly a deal, but assuming no disasters strike and leave me scrambling for a replacement, I’ll be going into college with a basically new computer. I leave my backpack hanging sadly on the hook in my locker and go with Stevie to her locker, admiring all the different ways the students are wearing the uniform—untucked shirts, rolled sleeves, slouchy cardigans, knee-high socks, and more rolled skirts. I was expecting to see stricter rule following, especially on the first day, but now that I know these possibilities are, well, possible, maybe I’ll take a chance on feeling

slightly more comfortable tomorrow. The school store apparently doesn’t keep permanent stock of sizes over XL, so when my parents remembered last-minute that we had to buy uniforms, this is what I got. Too-small shirt, too-small skirt. They fit, but it could be easy for anyone to make a case that I’m breaking dress code. At least, I thought that until I saw everyone else.

“I’ve already been here this morning,” she says, opening the door to show off a gold-framed mirror, pictures of mostly just her and several little dogs, and a copy of her class schedule. Before I have a chance to check if we have anything together, she shuts the door, locker tour over.

“Don’t worry about your sister, okay?” Stevie unconsciously imitates my posture with her own binder, using it as a shield to protect her chest. “She’s going to love it here. The budget is stupidly extra and the classes are easy.”

Someone comes over the announcement system—a nasally person who probably can’t hear how garbled their speech is from wherever they’re delivering this announcement—and says that we should all proceed to our homerooms for a special welcome assembly.

Apparently, Stevie turned a new leaf and cares about punctuality now. She used to live in detention from her tardies, but now being on time means scoping out the best seats and people to sit with, or so she tells me.

“When Courtland finally started letting girls in, my parents jumped at the chance, you know? It’s why I disappeared before sophomore year. Started all new accounts under Stevie, broke up with the toxic friends—not you; I couldn’t find you online—and decided I’d be different here.” She gives me a small smile. “It’s kind of hard to be the slacker weirdo one year and then the bubbly makeup girlie the next without getting made fun of or called fake.”

“Why was there such a change?” At her sharp look, I continue quickly, “Not that there is anything wrong with this.”

“I just wasn’t confident, and everyone had known me since, like, kindergarten, so I felt like I couldn’t be anything else.” She shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but it is. I completely understand what she means. “If I’m honest, I actually did hesitate to be your guide. But only because you knew the old me and then I worried you wouldn’t even remember the old me, or that you’d say something—”

“No, I would never,” I interject.

“Exactly,” she says with a smile. “Exactly. I realized I was worrying for nothing. You were always so nice, and maybe this is a fresh start for you, too.”

“Yeah,” I say lightly. Stevie doesn’t know what it means to me that she’s here, and I would definitely not have taken that for granted to, what? Comment that she’s changed? Decide that after one second of seeing her, I could sum her up and judge her?

“This is you.” She leaves me at my homeroom, which is right next to hers, and then abandons me much like my mother and sister earlier, but with the promise that she’ll return.

Before entering the classroom, I take another deep breath. A girl’s lungs could

 get used to this premium, unstinky air. All along the hallway, other seniors are slamming lockers shut, joining friends on their way to their homerooms, and having a perfectly fine start to their final year here.

Each grade has their own lunch periods and hallways for lockers and classes, efficiently keeping everyone separated. It’s something the school prides itself on, giving this morsel of information front-and-center placement on the website. This will make things difficult in the Keeping an Eye on Connie department, but might also help signal when something is wrong. Like now. Connie makes a beeline down the hall and I swear I can see the drama following her. The worst part is that, deep in my gut, I know I won’t be able to stop it.

She finds a break in the steady stream of teenage bodies and rushes toward me.

“Hey,” she says, breathless, her eyes wide. She shoves a piece of paper into my hands. “The library offers free printing, and it’s so fast. I got my first two chapters printed before the announcement, and I’m hoping seeing it on paper will jump-start my writing again.”

Connie overheated our home printer attempting to print out her first completed fic—a total of one hundred and twelve thousand words—and it hasn’t worked ever since. There’s just something about printers. When one dies, it’s not worth trying to resurrect it.

“Where’s your guide?” I ask.

Her face falls. “She went to class—”

“She’s supposed to take you to your homeroom so you don’t get lost.”

I can feel my shields going up faster than Connie’s fanfic could print. I’ll probably be late, but I could maybe manage to get her to where she needs to be on time. I glance down at what she handed me. It’s my schedule, warm from the printer.

“Wow, thanks, Mom,” I mutter sarcastically, just so she doesn’t get too smug

that I actually do appreciate it. I was going to download my schedule to my laptop, but this will be so much easier to access between classes.

“It’s okay. I can make it on my own.”

“Really?” I ask in disbelief. “Do you know where you’re going? Because the bell is about to ring.”

“The school emailed a map—I printed that for you, too.” She flips open her binder and pulls out another piece of paper, which she offers to me. She’s already marked it with a leaky pink highlighter. I have no doubt she did the same for her own map. “It’s how I found you.”

I grab her arm with a sigh, intent on dragging her kicking and screaming to her homeroom if I have to, but she pulls away.

“Stop,” she hisses. “You’re so embarrassing.”

I’m embarrassing?

“You’re so much,” she continues. “I’ll be fine.”

She turns away and takes a plunge into the ebbing and flowing river of students. Barely two steps away, she trips on her loose shoelace, like a cartoon character, except I couldn’t make this up.

Her binder flies open and her papers spill out across the floor. If people don’t walk over them, they just step around. So much for that community the school website promised. She’s lucky she hasn’t been trampled at this point because the hall is filled mostly with guys three times her size. It seems Stevie isn’t the only one who cares about being on time, even for something as pointless as homeroom.

I rush over and help pick her up. “You okay?”

“Oh god, my chapters!” She ignores me, trying to gather the papers even if it means losing a finger to someone’s ugly Sperrys. She tucks each paper to her chest with care. I stoop to help, no one else bothering, until a head of blond curls dips into my sight.

“These yours?” a white guy with an eerily symmetrical face asks.

“My sister’s.” I take the papers he offered and mimic Connie, keeping the words safe against my uniform. I’m not embarrassed that she writes fan fiction. Annoyed sometimes, sure. Especially now. But not embarrassed. It’s her enthusiasm for everything that embarrasses me. I’m only being discreet because this work is private and it getting into the mainstream is what caused our school transfers in the first place. People finding out she’s FridgedButNotForgotten20 on day one is not an option. “Thanks.”

He’s like a huge rock in a stream; everyone moves around us as we collect the rest of her chapter. His hand lands on the last sheet of paper and he stops.

“What is this?” he asks, standing. His eyes dance over the page quickly and my heart sinks. I try to grab the paper from him, but he turns away, still scanning the lines.

“‘Their lives had always been intertwined, like their fingers, like their legs after sex. It was always meant to be like this—’”

Again, I attempt to snatch the paper from him, but he’s too quick. Connie stands off to the side, horror—no, trauma—on her face. The crowd dwindles down as people head into their homerooms, but a few stick around to hear what this guy recites of my sister’s most personal work.

“‘It was always meant to be them. Nothing could have prepared either for this magical feeling, this moment of destiny.’”

Laughter starts around us and I can’t help but think it’s because they think they’re supposed to laugh. There isn’t anything funny about Connie’s words. They’re sweet, if a little naive. I’d say as much if I weren’t so taken aback.

The guy clears his throat, reading a little to himself before opening his mouth like he’s about to start up again. The silence gives my brain the second it needs to unfreeze.

“That’s not yours.” I snatch the paper from his hands, accidentally ripping it in half.

“You said it

wasn’t yours either,” he says a little coldly.

He tries to snag my half, but I dodge him.

Stevie’s homeroom teacher comes to the hallway from her classroom. She’s a fortysomething white woman who appears exhausted with the school year already. “What’s going on out here? Get to your homerooms.”

“Sorry,” the guy says, putting on a lighter, friendlier tone. “I would, but someone dropped their papers.” He raises his half of Connie’s page as evidence.

“Okay, just hurry up,” she says before returning to her classroom.

He snorts to himself—and maybe to the crowd still listening. “Where’s your sister? Can I hire her to write my sexts? My girlfriend would eat this stupid shit up.”

I snatch the last bit of paper from his hands, save for the piece clenched in his fist.

“What’s your problem?” My voice doesn’t waver.

“You girls,” he says offhandedly, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. “Always trying to make drama out of nothing. It was literally dropped right in front of me. What else was I supposed to do?”

I glance around at the crowd and mumble, “Not read it?”

He grins, and if he weren’t so obviously evil to the core, I might think it’s nice. It’s perfect, showing the same amount of teeth on each side, and a good amount of lip on the top and bottom. Cruelly, there’s even a dimple tucked into each cheek.

“What?” he says with a laugh. “You don’t want attention all of a sudden?” He balls the scrap of paper in his fist and lightly tosses it at my chest. It bounces off and hits the floor quietly. ...