First period. You could already smell the fear, the desperate energy, and the weird lemon-something floor wax. My locker was basically the crossroads of the school, where the jocks, the drama squad, and the baby-faced freshman herds all crashed into each other, so there was never a dull second. I kind of just braced myself, clutching my locker and giving it my best "don't-mess-with-me" look when I saw Tyler Matthews at the other end of the hall, leaning against the trophy case with his pack of dudes. He had one arm hooked around a basketball. He laughed at something, head tipped back, and you could see the way his jaw cut through the air from a mile away. The jawline alone could probably win MVP. I promised myself not to stare.
Completely failed.
Julian crashed in from nowhere, slamming her locker so hard it sounded like thunder, and my ears hurt. "Real subtle, Sebat. You wanna mop up that puddle by your feet or should I call the janitor?"
I gave her the look. Shoved my history textbook even deeper into my bag. "Nice to see you too, Jules. New perm or is your hair just staging a revolt again?"
She ignored me, obviously, and zeroed straight in on my weak spot. "So, are we talking to Tyler this week, or is it still the Olympic gold medal in forbidden fruit staring?"
She was smirking, but deep down she meant it well. I rolled my eyes, but then instantly checked Tyler again because apparently my willpower was D-list. "He's got a girlfriend," I mumbled. "Not that it's important."
"Sure, but said girlfriend's at Westlake now, which is, like, twenty miles and a whole universe away," Julian dropped her voice, all dramatic, even when literally no one was listening. "Now's your chance."
"Okay, Napoleon," I said. "Don't freeze to death on your way to Russia."
Julian snorted and started walking. I followed, trying to look chill, which was impossible because my heart was punching a drum solo as we passed Tyler's group. He didn't see me, or, more likely, he'd perfected the art of pretending I was invisible.
First hour: history. Ms. Graff's empire. She was already up at the board, scribbling wild timelines and diagrams like her life depended on it. Pop quiz time. Something about dead kings I'd never heard of. I crumpled into my seat and did my best disappearing act.
Julian slid in beside me and immediately started the world's most dramatic texting marathon about her little brothers, who had apparently destroyed her bathroom with a "homemade volcano experiment." She had evidence. She even sent a picture: the sink looked like it had survived a monster attack, blue foam everywhere, and two tiny gremlins grinning in the background.
My phone would not quit buzzing.
Julian: i have to live with these monsters
Julian: u coming over after practice or nah
Julian: bring sugar. my mom is on a health food rampage
I texted back: not unless u promise not to make me watch that cheese movie again.
Julian: u mean the OSCAR NOMINATED cheese doc? uncultured swine
I laughed, but super quiet, which meant Ms. Graff instantly caught me with her death glare. She could always tell. "Kimberly Sebat, since you're clearly awake, what happened in 1848?"
Total brain static. "Um… Revolution?"
She tilted her eyebrow. "Which one?"
"European?"
Everyone cracked up. Ms. Graff looked like she was in pain, but also weirdly satisfied, like I'd done my job.
I decided not to listen to the rest of the lecture. Instead, I doodled wolves in the margins of my notebook, each one howling at a moon that kept getting bigger and bigger. Only realized I was doing it when Julian poked my arm and whispered, "You want to make an announcement to the class? Maybe howling at Tyler?"
I flicked my pen cap at her. Direct hit into her coffee. She grinned, like she'd won the Olympics.
By lunch, the day was seriously not my best, but then creative writing happened. Mr. Kimble's new, straight out of grad school, but already looked exhausted by everyone. He gave us a prompt: "What makes you feel most alive?" It was super corny, but I decided to go for it.
I wrote about running through the woods at night, about cold air burning in my throat and the sound of leaves breaking under my feet, about this wild, nameless hunger that made my skin buzz. I didn't even notice how fast I was writing until Mr. Kimble said, "Time's up!" and my notebook was three pages deep. Probably my best writing all year. For the first time today, I felt kind of real.
As we left, Mr. Kimble caught me at the door. "Kim? This is really good." He tapped my notebook. "You should send it to the lit mag."
I nodded, and said thanks, but it came out tiny.
Julian was waiting at the lockers. She was already plotting our escape: "My mom's picking us up at four, but we have to stop at the store first. She's on a mission for kale and 'those little fish in cans.'"
"Anchovies?"
Julian looked disgusted. "I'm telling you, it's a cult now."
We drifted into science—the one class where I didn't feel like a malfunctioning ghost. Mr. Arnold was legendary; totally serious, but would defend the Bunsen burner with his entire life. Today was lab day, catalysts. Everyone else was basically trying to blow up the lab, but I'd finished the worksheet and was already perfecting the experiment.
Mr. Arnold checked my setup, gave me the tiniest nod. "Nice work, Kim. You're good at this."
Instant dopamine. It was like getting the lyric right or somehow nailing the eyeliner flick first try. I looked at Julian, who'd stabbed holes in her gloves and was threatening to "Frankenstein" her petri dishes. She winked, and for a second I forgot everything that had gone wrong earlier.
Science was the safe spot. In here, if you followed the rules, things worked.
But even with my hands busy and my mind on track, I couldn't ignore this crazy static in the background. Like something big was about to hit. Like I was changing and didn't even know it.
Maybe I already was.