Chapter 1
“Watch where you’re going, geek,” a guy from the football team says as my palms smack the concrete. The sting draws a hiss from my lips.
He wouldn’t ram into people if he looked up from his phone, I want to say. Instead, I apologize, even though he’s already halfway across the parking lot, laughing at me with his friends. He won’t remember this, but for me, he’s just another guy whose face I have to remember so I can stay out of his way.
It’s the first day of junior year, and if this is a sign of things to come, it’s going to be one for the books. Ah, Meridian High—the bane of my existence. Where the halls are an obstacle course designed specifically to torment introverts like me. Every day is a struggle to avoid eye contact, dodge conversations, and try to slip through the cracks unnoticed. Not that it ever works. My personal mission to become invisible has been a spectacular failure since freshman year when Paige Buchanan picked me as a target for her daily dose of cruelty. Insults and belittlements flew at me from all directions, it seemed like.
Last year I’d heard her say with a dramatic sigh, “I can’t believe she’s using the same backpack.” As if reusing a perfectly good backpack is some kind of social crime punishable by public humiliation. The popular girls have a special talent for making the most mundane things sound like capital offenses.
I’d rather be curled up at home with a good book or watching another documentary about the expedition to Mars because the social hierarchy around here is more rigid than medieval Europe. At least in medieval times, high schools didn’t exist.
So, what’s my strategy? Keep my head down, get through each day without becoming a trending topic, and count down the days until graduation. Only 640 more days to go. Not that I’m counting or anything.
Brown specks of dirt cascade from my pants as I brush them away, sending a dusty cloud billowing into the air. I drop to my knees, heart still pounding from the collision as I gather my scattered notebooks. My fingers fumble as I stuff them into my oversized bookbag, betraying the tremor running through my hands. First day back tends to be my least favorite.
The plastic hair clip dangles by a few stubborn strands, tickling my neck. I yank it free and snap it back into place as my gaze sweeps across the crowded school grounds for the one person who can make this teenage battleground bearable.
My best friend in the whole wide world, Stephanie, stands by the entrance, waving at me with a big smile. I wave back, feeling a bit of the tension in my chest release. At least we have each other here.
“Rough morning already?” she asks as I catch up to her.
“Oh, you know, the usual,” I say with a half-hearted smile. “You?”
“Survived orientation without getting hit by any stray footballs, so I’m calling it a win.”
“Same.” Technically, I got hit by a football player, not a ball. Still counts.
We walk down the hallways to first period. They feel narrower than last year, filled with groups of kids laughing, gossiping, and pretending high school is some kind of magical land where everyone knows what they’re doing.
Not me. I’m just trying to make it from point A to point B without getting knocked down by a jock.
“What’s your first class?” I ask, propping my backpack on my shoulders.
“English,” Stephanie’s eyes roll. “I thought Ms. Burton was the most popular teacher in school. She made us write an essay on our summer vacations. On the first day.”
“That’s cruel,” I say as I nestle against her to avoid a couple of dudes chasing each other like they’re still in third grade. This place feels as if I'm navigating a minefield.
“Right?” She looks at me. “What about you?”
“Chemistry,” I say with a sigh. “But it’s fine. If I’m going to be an astronaut and leave this planet, I need to ace my science classes.”
Stephanie chuckles. “Still planning to launch into space and leave ourflawlesssocial norms behind?”
“The first chance I get.”
We hug and part ways, then I make my way to the chemistry lab. Class is my sanctuary. I really like learning, which I have a distinct feeling sets me apart from most people here. I raise my hand a lot—too much, I think—and that gets me labeled as a teacher’s pet. But what can I say? Solving a math problem is much easier than surviving gym class, where I’m always picked last for teams. I can’t blame anyone, though. I don’t have the athletic gene—compliments of Mom—and I’ve fully embraced that fact.
The moment I walk in, I spot an empty seat near the back where I can stay out of sight.
Perfect.
As I begin toward it, our teacher, Mr. Kendrick, looks up from his attendance sheet.
“And you are?” he asks.
“Chrissy Lang.”
He draws a checkmark on his sheet and tells me to take any available seat.
