Paying the Piper

Three: A Warm Welcome

When Mom and I had visited the school a few days ago, the empty halls had had an entirely different feel than they did now, with students chatting, waving, calling to each other. And when I had been here with Mom, we'd made about five friends in the time it took to tour the grounds: the janitor appreciated the way we carefully wiped our feet on the rugs inside the door; two teachers adored my mom's outfit and gave her the quick tips on where to shop; and some secretary couldn't get over the fact that I was being transferred a month into my junior year and needed to hear all about the steps my parents were taking to make sure I had as smooth a transition as possible. What good parenting I had, blah blah blah.

But it was the principal in particular who had loved Mom, and the two of them kept laughing as they had clicked down the hallways. The principal had to keep remembering to actually give the tour info to us, she was so deep in a story about some kid who had graduated several years back and wound up out in California, CEO of some pharmacy company. It was probably their most famous student, the one they boasted about to entice parents to leave their teenagers in this school's care.

As I stood in the entryway today by myself, I knew I would be lucky to make even one friend during my entire year here. Friend groups had been clearly established since freshman year. And I definitely wasn't charming like my mom.

Quickly, I found my way to the locker that the principal had showed me and focused on opening it, as if there were no more important work I could be doing than spinning the combination as precisely as possible.

"Ellie!" I heard some girls shriek, as they raced down the hall to greet a fellow classmate. "Jason's going to ask you out!"

Grimacing, I began piling my notebooks and folders onto the one shelf in my locker. I briefly wondered whose locker I had stolen—or if this school were actually so small that they had had spare ones after the start of the school year. Then I quadruple-checked my schedule to ensure that my homeroom was indeed the same 108 that marked the plaque outside the room.

Only one other student sat within the room. We glanced at each other briefly, then we both averted our gazes. I slid into a seat on the other side of the room, near the back. Maybe if I were really lucky, people wouldn't make a fuss about my transfer.

It was a wasted hope. As each student slunk in and dropped into a desk, I felt the eyes on me. I guessed that's what happened when you transferred mid-semester. Everyone was wondering what I had done to have gotten expelled from my prior school. Nobody transferred on a Tuesday, the last day of September. I didn't know what it was that made my presence stand out—my red hair? The desperation that no one look at me? The fact that this small school's students knew everyone?—but no matter what class, I couldn't escape the stares, the looks, the notice. It was as though I had some magnet in my body that drew everyone's eyes whether they willed it or not.

It wasn't just the students, either, but even the teachers. They seemed to give me furtive glances throughout class, and I caught Mr. Johnson of Government staring at me during the time he'd given us to work on a group project. Had they been warned about me? Seen my name in the news? We had moved three hours south of where I'd been expelled, but maybe the story had traveled that far.

My heart sank suddenly: of course the information was in my school record. All my teachers would know what had happened.

So much for fresh starts.

The worst period was, as always, lunch.

Schools needed to start placing individual desks in the cafeteria for the loners like me, so at least we'd have an excuse not to be socializing. So we wouldn't have to feel awkward and guilty at the moment it came to choose which bench to sit on.