The gates of Blackwell Academy aren't just gates. They're a warning.
Black iron, coiled with gold trim, standing twice my height, guarded by two stone lions whose eyes seem to follow you. The kind of place that doesn't say welcome, but rather, prove you belong here.
I shift the strap of my worn leather bag higher on my shoulder, feeling the sting of my thrift-shop sweater against the newness of my surroundings. The parking lot is lined with cars that cost more than my mom's apartment building, and the students stepping out of them look like they've stepped off glossy magazine covers every detail polished, from the shine of their shoes to the way they toss their hair without a care.
I'm not one of them. And that's the point.
Blackwell wasn't my choice. It was my mother's last-ditch attempt to "set me straight" after... well, after the incident. The one no one talks about at home. The one that left me labeled, whispered about, and, according to my mother, in desperate need of "a clean slate."
The thing about clean slates? They don't stay clean for long.
Inside, the hallways gleam with polished wood and expensive light fixtures. Every step echoes like the building itself is listening. My mother's heels click beside me, sharp and certain, while my sneakers barely make a sound.
The principal's office smells faintly of lavender and old books. Behind a wide oak desk sits Principal Aldridge - sharp suit, hair pulled into a sleek bun, eyes that miss nothing.
"Blackwell Academy doesn't normally take students on short notice," she says after we sit. Her gaze flicks to my mother, then back to me. "But, given my long-standing friendship with your mother, we've made an exception. That exception will not be extended again."
She leans forward, hands clasped. "I'm aware of your... history, Serena. I'll be very clear. If you disobey school rules, cause disruption, or find yourself in any scandal - you will be expelled. Immediately."
I nod, even though a dozen sharp comebacks burn on my tongue.
My mom gives me the look - the one that means I'm already on thin ice. When we leave the office, she hugs me tightly. "Behave, Serena," she says softly but firmly. "No more mistakes."
I want to promise her, but I've learned that promises are tricky things. Instead, I just say, "Okay," and let her go.
The secretary, a kind woman with bright glasses, hands me a folded map and a sheet of paper. "This is your schedule. And here's your student guide."
That's when I meet her.
"Calla Royce," the girl says, stepping forward with a smile that feels genuine - like sunlight through a window. Her uniform skirt is perfectly tailored, her hair pulled into a neat ponytail, but there's a relaxed air about her that puts me at ease.
"Serena Vale," I reply, shaking her hand.
She tilts her head. "So... did you choose Blackwell yourself, or...?"
"Or," I say with a half-smile, and she laughs softly like she gets it.
"Thought so. I didn't exactly pick it either. My parents decided it was 'prestigious' and 'full of opportunity.' First week was brutal I got lost twice in one day and ended up walking into the senior chemistry lab by mistake. The teacher thought I was auditing the class and made me answer a question about molecular bonds. I didn't even know what a molecular bond was."
I grin, and she grins back, her eyes bright. "Don't worry. It gets better. Sort of. Depends on your tolerance for gossip."
She glances at my schedule and raises her eyebrows. "Hey, looks like we'll have Literature together and History. Oh, and maybe Art, if you signed up for it?"
"I did," I say, surprised at how quickly relief washes over me.
"Perfect. We can suffer through Ms. Halberg's pop quizzes together."
We step into the corridor, and she starts pointing things out. "So, that's the library. Biggest collection in the state though most people just come here to scroll through their phones in peace."
We pass the courtyard, where clusters of students gather in tight little circles. Some laugh too loudly, others glance over with polite curiosity, but most barely notice me.
Calla leans closer. "Okay, I'm going to give you the unofficial tour now. First rule you'll hear about them. The social royalty. Don't stare too long; it's like blood in the water."
I follow her gaze toward a table under a blossoming cherry tree. Three girls sit there like they own the view.
"That's Vanessa King," Calla says, lowering her voice slightly. "She's the queen bee the type who'll compliment your shoes while plotting how to make you trip in them."
Vanessa is all glossy blonde hair, perfect eyeliner, and the kind of smile that could sell secrets.
"The brunette with the pearl headband is Clarissa Lane Vanessa's shadow. She'll deny it, but she lives for Vanessa's approval. And the redhead? That's Mia Porter. Don't be fooled by the freckles; she's the meanest of the three."
I glance at them briefly, and it's obvious they're already assessing me.
"Word of advice," Calla adds, "stay out of their line of fire unless you want to spend your semester dodging gossip."
"And the second rule?" I ask.
She hesitates for a beat. "Don't cross Damien Hawthorne."
The name hangs in the air like a dropped match, and though I've never met him, it sparks something curiosity, maybe.
Calla shrugs. "He's... complicated. You'll see."
We reach the door to my dorm room, and she hands me the key. "Welcome to Blackwell, Serena. Enjoy your stay - and if you ever get lost, just text me. I'm basically a walking map now."
Her tone is half reassurance, half warning, and when she leaves, I feel a little less alone than I did this morning.
Inside, my new room smells faintly of lavender. Cream walls, a bed with a navy duvet, a desk by the window overlooking the courtyard. I set my bag down and sink onto the mattress.
New school. New rules. Stay invisible. Stay out of trouble.
Especially trouble with Damien Hawthorne.