The principal beamed as she ushered us into her office, where a Stanford Alumni travel mug sat on her desk, along with photos of smiling girls in ballet leotards.
“Well, Sasha, we’re so glad to have you,” she said.
“Um, thanks,” I replied.
All of this felt surreal and impossible, like I wasn’t really here at all. And yet, when I pictured my old high school, surrounded by businesses that were still being rebuilt after the earthquake, I didn’t feel like I was supposed to be there, either.
I was caught between implausibilities, and so I sat quietly as the principal reviewed my transcripts, doing that pleased nod to show that I was one of the Good Ones.
She assured us that Baycrest had a “very rigorous honors track,” with teachers that assigned an average of one hour of homework per night, and then started reviewing my schedule.
Yearbook, of course. Honors Brit Lit. AP Euro. French 3. And, unfortunately, Phys Ed. Randall had only required two years, but here, I needed four.
At least it’s block scheduling, I told myself. At least it’s every other day.
“Since you earned an A in Algebra II last year, I’d recommend honors pre-calc,” Principal Mitchell said.
I was pretty sure I’d been muddling my way toward a B-plus at best, except Mr. Hass had taken pity after my mom died. I didn’t even remember completing my final packet, and yet my grade had come back an A, just like it had in every other class.
“Or I could stick with regular,” I said.
“If you qualify for honors, you should push yourself,” my grandmother said. “You don’t want colleges to think you’re looking for easy A’s.”
It was adorable she considered pre-calc an easy A. Because I definitely didn’t.
“Honors it is,” Principal Mitchell said, typing it into her computer. “And honors chemistry . . .” She frowned, looking at her screen. “Nothing left except a zero period.”
I couldn’t have a zero period. Already my grandmother had dragged herself out of bed at seven a.m. to putter around the kitchen while I ate breakfast and to drive me to school.
“How about regular chemistry?” I asked hopefully.
Math and science were my weakest subjects. But my transcript from last year was full of A’s, and my standardized tests scores were high, and I could practically hear my grandmother analyzing how every breath I took would look to a college admissions board.
“If we switch your elective, we can make it work,” the principal said.
My throat went dry.
“Do that,” Eleanor instructed.
“But yearbook—” I started to protest. My grandmother shot me a look.
“You’ll take something else,” she said, as though it was already set in stone.
And then she raised an eyebrow at me, as if to say, Sasha, don’t be rude.
“We have Computer Programming or Studio Art,” the principal said.
“Studio Art,” I said quickly, before Eleanor had me taking AP everything, with a nice, relaxing side of Computer Programming.
“There,” my grandmother said. “Problem solved.”
Just when I thought we were finished, Principal Mitchell handed me a slip of contact information for the school counselor.
I stared down at it, horribly embarrassed.
“I know you’ve gone through quite a traumatic time,” Principal Mitchell said, making her voice Warm and Understanding. “So if you need someone to talk to, Dr. Okafor’s door is always open.”
Please, no, I thought. And then my grandmother plucked the paper from my fist and crumpled it into a ball.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said frostily. “Sasha’s seeing one of the best adolescent psychologists in the area. So I’m sure you understand that we have this covered.”
I swear to god, the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
I could almost see Principal Mitchell’s breath cloud in front of her lips as she pasted on a fake smile and assured my grandmother that it had only been a suggestion, and one she could see was ill-advised.
“Very,” my grandmother said, shouldering her bag to make it clear the meeting was over.
I stood up along with her.
Eleanor Bloom, ladies and gentlemen, I thought.
My locker was beige, and empty, and smelled like cleaning supplies. I stared into it, trying not to think about all of the people who had used it before me. Trying not to think of my mom, standing in this courtyard, unloading her textbooks on the first day of her junior year.
Had her locker even been on this side of the building, or was it in that bank near the senior lot? I guessed I’d never know.
All around me, students stopped to say hello to each other. To hug, or ask about each other’s summers as though they hadn’t already seen the pictures. Everyone was ridiculously well dressed, in this studied I’m-not-trying way. Even the boys in sweatpants wore the expensive kind that were all zips and slouch. Some of the girls had on fake eyelashes with their messy buns and festival shorts, or maybe they just had permanent lash extensions.
I was surrounded by the chatter and laughter of a school that I somehow went to, but in no way felt like mine. There was a horrible tightness in my chest, and I didn’t know how to make it go away. I had too many AP classes, and a random elective I didn’t want. My plan to quietly join the yearbook staff was ruined, and I had approximately three seconds to come up with a new one.
My grandparents were expecting me to flourish here, like a houseplant they’d coaxed back into bloom. But what if, despite their coaxing, I withered instead?
I didn’t really have anything to drop off, but standing at my locker made me look busy and not alone, so I rifled through my backpack, pretending. I was testing my combination one final time when I saw Adam from next door, and the girl who had picked him up in her fancy car.
They were on the opposite end of the courtyard, both wearing sunglasses, and they were laughing hysterically at something. The girl’s head tilted back, her hair loose and flowing. I couldn’t stop staring. She was so effortless, so perfect, in a slouchy black sweater and army-green pants and lace-up boots, a tote bag draped over her shoulder. She swatted at Adam, and he twisted out of the way.
They seemed comfortable together, like they’d known each other their whole lives. When they crossed the courtyard, I could finally hear every word they were saying.
“Bullshit,” Adam accused. “You’re making that up.”
“For real. He broke into the British Museum and stole like a million dollars’ worth of dead birds,” the girl insisted. “Out of everything you can steal from a museum, that’s what he took. Taxidermy.”
Adam laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “I hope they called him the Birdglar. Get it?”
“If I say no, can I pretend you never said it?”
They were so close that I might have called out to them then, saying hello, remember me, with the dog? but I didn’t, because what if they stared at me blankly, or what if they weren’t people you could just talk to unprompted?
And then the bell rang for homeroom, and the sea of students swallowed them up completely.
I made it through homeroom and first period pretending to be wallpaper. Honors pre-calc was dull but bearable, because at least math teachers didn’t make you partner up or report on what you did over the summer.