Hollow Pines High squatted at the end of Main Street like a brick toad, all narrow windows and heavy doors. Someone had painted murals along the outside walls—wolves running through forests, ravens perched on pine branches, symbols that looked almost runic carved into tree bark.
Cheerful.
“Those are... interesting,” Mom said, studying the artwork with her teacher's eye. “Very... regional.”
Students clustered around the entrance in the universal ritual of teenage social sorting. Jocks by the flagpole, goths nearthe bike racks, theater kids under the overhang arguing about some play I'd never heard of. Normal high school bullshit, except for the way they all went quiet when they saw us coming.
Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned. A girl with purple hair actually elbowed her friend and pointed at Mom, then at me.
“Subtle,” I muttered.
Mom straightened her shoulders, slipping into her professional persona. “Showtime,” she said quietly, then louder: “I'll see you after school, honey. Try to have a good day.”
She disappeared through the main entrance toward the faculty offices, leaving me alone to face the teenage firing squad. I pushed through the front doors, camera case bouncing against my hip.
Inside wasn't much better. Faded murals covered every available wall—more wolves, more forests, more of those strange symbols that made my eyes water if I looked too long. The hallways felt too narrow, the ceiling too low, like the building was trying to compress everyone inside it into submission.
Lockers slammed. Footsteps echoed. Somewhere, a teacher yelled about hall passes. Standard high school chaos, but with an undercurrent that set my teeth on edge. Everyone knew each other here, had grown up together, shared jokes and secrets and history I'd never be part of.
Story of my fucking life.
I found my locker—number 237, sandwiched between a girl with intricate braids who looked at me like I might be diseased and a guy who seemed to be using his locker as a fort against the world. Neither acknowledged my existence, which was fine by me.
First period: English with Mr. Daniels, who apparently moonlighted from the history department. The classroom smelled like old books and chalk dust, walls covered with postersabout local folklore and Native American legends. Students filed in with the weary resignation of people serving a sentence.
I grabbed a seat in the middle—not trying to hide in the back, not desperate enough for attention to sit up front. Neutral territory.
Mr. Daniels, a thin man with graying hair and kind eyes, waited until everyone had settled before clearing his throat. “Class, we have a new student today. Nathaniel, would you like to introduce yourself?”
Every head swiveled toward me. Heat crawled up my neck, but I forced myself to stand. “Nate,” I said. “Just moved from Portland.”
“Wonderful! What brings your family to our little corner of the world?”
Loaded question. Mom's job was the safe answer, but something about the way he asked made me hesitate. Like he was fishing for something specific.
“My mom's the new English teacher,” I said carefully. “And my dad thought the mountain air might cure his allergies.”
A few kids snickered. Mr. Daniels smiled, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Well, I hope you'll find Hollow Pines...educational. We have quite a rich history here.”
I glanced around at the folklore posters, the wolf imagery, the symbols that seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them. “So I've noticed. What's with all the wolf stuff?”
The room went dead silent.
Mr. Daniels' smile faltered for just a second before snapping back into place. “Wolves are an important part of our local ecosystem. And our cultural heritage, of course.”
“Of course,” I echoed, but kept my tone light. Curious instead of challenging. “Are there still wild packs in the area?”
“Some,” he said, and moved on so fast it made my head spin. “Now, let's discuss your reading assignment...”
But I'd already learned what I wanted to know. Wolves were a sensitive topic in Hollow Pines. And from the way half the class had tensed when I asked about them, I wasn't the only one who'd noticed.
Interesting.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of introductions and syllabi and teachers who seemed determined to make me feel welcome while their students watched me like I was some exotic species they couldn't quite classify. By lunch, my face hurt from forcing smiles and my brain felt waterlogged from trying to remember names I'd probably never use.
The cafeteria buzzed with conversation and the clash of plastic trays. I grabbed a sandwich and a bag of chips—the pizza looked like it had been punched by an angry fist—and scanned for somewhere to sit. A girl I vaguely recognized from earlier waved me over to her table, but something about her eager smile made me pause.
Instead, I found an empty table near the windows and settled in with my camera. Through the lens, the cafeteria became a ecosystem of teenage behavior. Predators and prey, alpha dogs and omega kids, all playing out the same social dynamics humans had been perfecting for thousands of years.
