I’ve always hated the first day of school. Even worse is the first day of school in a new city. It would be easier if we didn’t move so much. If I could just stay put in one school for long enough I’m sure the other kids would get used to the way I look, maybe even start to accept me. I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore. I’m a senior this year. All I have to do is survive until graduation.
Manhattan is a big change from Massachusetts. I don’t exactly blend in here, but at least I don’t feel as conspicuous as I did in Wellesley, or Duxbury before that, or any of the scores of places we’ve lived over the years. That’s a plus.
Since we moved here two weeks ago I’ve been taking walks around the city while wearing different faces—faces that are plainer than mine and won’t cause any problems. I’ve been able to wander, explore, and blend in.
I’ve loved it here, actually, even though New York City is the most dangerous place for me to be. I’ve discovered a renegade graffiti artist who’s been leaving tags on the side of some seriously expensive real estate. The tags are unique. Special. More like works of guerilla art than vandalism, and they always feel like they were made just for me. It’s silly, I know, but they really speak to me. I’ve been changing my face every time I sneak out to look for more tags, but I can’t wear a different face to school. My mortal father has no idea what I am, and it would be quite a shock to him to find some stranger’s face hovering over my name in the yearbook.
Today, and every day from now on, I have to wear my true face to school. The Face.
I see the other kids streaming into the exclusive private school across the street from Central Park and swallow, my hand still on the door handle. I’m stuck here for a moment, reluctant to open the door, and wishing like crazy that this time it’ll be different. Wishing I’ll make even one friend this time.
My driver looks at me in the rearview mirror, worried, and I push the door of the black town car open before he gets into trouble with my father for my tardiness. I look down at my button-down oxford, green and blue kilt, white tights, and burgundy leather penny loafers as I hurry across the street and into the school. I worry that my oxford isn’t loose enough and that my kilt isn’t long enough to hide my figure. I hunch my shoulders and scowl.
Keep your face down, I remind myself. Don’t smile at any of the boys.
As I start weaving my way through the crowded halls I can feel eyes landing all over me; eyes lingering, peering closer and searching for some kind of imperfection. I think most of the time people stare because they can’t believe it. They stare because they want to be sure that I am as flawless as their first glance hinted, and once they confirm that, they can let it go for the most part.
It’s only the people who are missing something in themselves, the people who are the most shallow and materialistic, who can’t let it go. They come after me, coveting me, like a thing. And there’s no lack of shallow kids in the kinds of schools my dad sends me to. I’ve begged to go to public, but he’d never allow it. What would all his high-powered partners think about me mingling with the serfs of the middle class? They’d probably never develop another luxury building with him again.
I try to concentrate on the map I got in my orientation packet. I hear the conversations of the other students around me die down as I pass, and the whispers that rise up like a hissing tide behind my back. Trying to ignore them, I read the numbers on the lockers to my right, counting down the row, and realize that my locker is buried behind a cluster of large, noisy boys. Jocks for sure, each of them flooded with testosterone. I can feel static tingling in my fingertips, and I push down the fight-or-flight response. The last thing I need to do is accidentally electrocute someone in the hallway on my first day of school. How would I explain that? I stop and almost turn around to flee when the jocks see me and break apart.
“Is this yours?” asks a tall boy with sandy-colored hair. He steps back and gestures to my locker.
I nod and deepen my scowl, my head bent. I dart between the tall sandy-haired boy and a shorter, thicker boy with dark hair. Another boy joins them, closing me in.
“You’re new here,” says the sandy-haired boy confidently. I can already tell he’s the alpha, staking his claim. There’s one of him in every school. “What’s your name?”
“Daphne,” I say, fumbling with the combination lock. My hands are shaking.
“I’m Flynn,” he replies, his voice dropping. He’s moving closer to me, but I doubt he’s aware of that. I doubt any of them are aware of the fact that they’ve surrounded me. They’re running on instinct now.
My lighting thrills under my skin, responding to the male threat. I try to calm down. I remind myself that they can’t help it. They want to see my face—they need to see it—so they’re coming closer. I wonder if I should try something different this time. Maybe if I let them see me they’ll get what they want and give me some space. I tuck my hair behind my ear with my pinky, straighten up to my full height of five feet nine inches tall, and look Flynn full in the face. His grey eyes go hazy and he sways closer to me, reaching, wanting, his self-restraint spiraling to nothing. Bad idea. I should have kept my head down.
“Flynn!”
His shoulders tense and he turns. Behind him I see a pretty brunette glaring at us. A well-dressed and expensively accessorized clique of
It Girls surrounds her, each of them wearing looks of varying shades of jealousy and outrage. Except there’s one spunky girl in the back with a face full of freckles who seems amused. She hasn’t been brainwashed by the lame restrictions of high-school hierarchy. Hope flickers inside me.
“Hi Kayla,” Flynn says, moving quickly to the queen bee’s side.
“Who’s this?” Kayla asks him. Like I’m not even here. She takes his hand possessively.
“I’m Daphne,” I reply. I don’t bother trying to smile at Kayla. We aren’t going to be friends. I hope she doesn’t try to do the whole ‘hostess of the school’ thing—showing me around, pretending to be helpful and welcoming until she finds a good place to stick her knife.
Kayla looks me up and down and turns away without saying a word. Good. She’s not even going to pretend to be civil. Her honesty is refreshing. The bell rings and the It Girls haul the rest of the boys away from me like they’re saving them from the plague.
I know that by the end of the day Kayla and her Prada mafia will have spread some vicious rumor about me trying to have sex with their boyfriends against the lockers or something equally absurd and the whole school will turn against me. This must be some sort of record. Usually I make it through an entire week before the lies about me sleeping with teachers, somebody’s father, or half the football team start. I try to remember that I only have one more year of this bullshit and I’m free, but my throat closes off with tears anyway. I pull myself together. I’ve cried about this enough times and I refuse to do it again. I look down at my map to find my homeroom.
It’s a small school. I think there are only about seventy or eighty kids in my grade, but even so I don’t see any of the jocks or the It Girls in my first three classes. I’m in the Advanced Placement track with all the geeks. I’m comfortable around geeks, especially the math and science kind. The girls are too busy thinking deep thoughts to care how I look and the boys are too freaked out by anything female to even acknowledge me. I would try to be friends with any of them, but I know that as soon as they find out that my GPA crushes theirs they’ll all hate me too. Jocks and It Girls have nothing on geeks when it comes to competitiveness.