TAMARA'S POV
The school gate looks bigger than I imagined. My heart thumps as Felix drives in, passing a signboard that reads in bold letters: "TWIGA GIRLS' HIGH SCHOOL." The compound is already alive — students walking in every direction, parents carrying boxes, prefects shouting instructions.
The air smells of dust, new books, and the faint scent of soap. Girls in crisp uniforms hurry around — some hugging their friends, others dragging suitcases. I press my face slightly against the window, taking it all in. It feels like stepping into another world.
A girl dressed in uniform approaches at the gate.
"Please go straight, you'll see a maroon gate. Pass through it and you'll find your way to the school field — it's just around," she explains to Felix, pointing with her hand.
We drive to the field, park, and step out of the car. My dad starts unloading my suitcase.
"Let's go to Mrs. Austin for directions. I've already called her," Felix says, adjusting his shirt.
"Alright," Dad replies, then turns to me. "You'll stay here with your mom. We'll be right back."
"Okay," I say softly.
They walk off, leaving me with Mom by the car. She takes out her leso — a colorful sheet of fabric she spreads on the grass to sit on — and settles down. I follow, sitting beside her. My eyes wander across the field filled with parked cars, students, and chatting parents.
We came early, yet the place is already packed. More people are still arriving, the crowd growing by the minute. Mom breaks the silence, her eyes darting around like she's secretly observing everyone.
"Felix knows a teacher here," she says, frowning slightly as she tries to remember.
"Mrs… ah…"
"Austin," I help her.
"Ah, yes! Mrs. Austin. She'll help us skip that long line and get your admission done quickly," Mom says proudly.
"Wow, that's good. We'd be standing there forever," I say, smiling.
"Yeah, we're lucky. Connections help, you know," she laughs, and I laugh too. For a moment, it feels light.
But then she starts again.
"Anyway, when we leave you here, remember why you came to school. Everyone here passed exams just like you. This environment is competitive — there are 500 of you joining Form One. So ask yourself, where do you belong among those 500?"
As she speaks, my mind drifts away. Not again. I know she means well, but it's the same advice all over again. Yesterday she already talked about life, my future, and of course — boys.
Boys, boys, boys!
She never forgets that topic. She's warned me a thousand times about how dangerous boys are — how they can ruin my life. Because of that, I grew up fearing them. I never even had a single male friend, not even in my mixed elementary school.
Honestly, I'm tired of hearing it. This is a girls' school — where are the boys coming from? She should relax, right? It's not like I'm planning to sneak out to find one. I came here to study, not to chase people around.
And out of those 500, I'll be in the top 10. That's my promise to myself — all the way until I graduate.
"…This is your life, anyway," Mom's voice cuts back into my thoughts. "You're working hard for your husband and children, not me."
I blink, realizing she's still talking. I nod quickly, pretending I've been listening the whole time.Before I can come up with something to say, I spot Felix and Dad walking back toward us. Felix waves a paper in the air.
"Tamara, you're next! We're going straight to admissions."
Mom gets up, folding her leso neatly. "Finally! Let's go before the line grows again."
As we walk, I notice the long queue twisting outside the registration office — parents holding files, girls balancing boxes, everyone looking exhausted already. The air buzzes with mixed emotions — excitement, tension, a few tears.
Felix leans close to Mom. "Don't worry, I called Mrs. Austin. She's waiting for us at the front."
We reach the office and sure enough, a tall woman with a warm but strict face waves us forward.
"This way, please," she says, smiling like she's doing us a huge favor.
We slip past the line, and immediately, I hear a few voices behind us.
"Eh, why are they jumping the line?" one woman mutters.
"Some people think they're special," another whispers, loud enough for me to hear.
My stomach tightens. I lower my head, pretending to scroll through my phone even though I don't have internet.
Mrs. Austin turns slightly and says, "They just went to get something signed, don't worry."
Her tone is smooth, practiced — like she's done this many times.
Mom just smiles and whispers to me, "See? Connection helps."
I force a small smile. "Yeah, connection," I echo, though my cheeks burn a little.
Inside, the office smells of new files and fresh paper. The teacher behind the desk looks up. "Name?"
"Tamara Dallas," Dad answers proudly.
She searches through a pile, then scribbles something on a form. "Admission number 9746," she says, handing me a card.
9746. The number already feels heavy, like it's about to decide my whole new identity.
We move next to the uniform section. Big cartons are lined up with sizes written in chalk. A lady hands me skirts, blouses, and a sweater.
"Try these on. The changing room is behind the curtain," she says.
Inside the small room, I struggle to pull the stiff blouse over my head. The fabric smells like starch. When I step out, Mom tilts her head and smiles proudly.
"Perfect fit," she says.
Felix laughs. "You look like a soldier now."
Dad chuckles softly. "A soldier ready for exams."
The uniform lady collects my old clothes and hands me a small receipt. "We'll print your admission number on everything. Name tags, socks, sheets, even underwear. We don't want anything lost."
I nod, watching them feed each item through a machine that buzzes softly.
It feels strange, seeing 9746 stitched on everything that's mine — like my name doesn't matter anymore, only this number does.
After what feels like hours, Mrs. Austin returns. "All done?" she asks.
"Yes," Mom says. "Just the dorm left."
"Good," Mrs. Austin says, motioning us to follow. "She'll be in The Queen's Dorm. Form One section, second floor."
We carry the boxes together, the afternoon sun biting at our backs. My heart races with every step. The dorm looms ahead — rows of identical windows, the smell of detergent and fresh paint floating in the air.
Mom stops at the door, wiping sweat from her forehead. "This is it, Tamara," she says quietly. "Your new home."
I stare up at the dorm sign — The Queen's Dorm.
The name sounds royal, but inside, my stomach twists.
It's really happening.Before I can come up with something to say, I spot Felix and Dad walking back toward us. Felix waves a paper in the air.
"Tamara, you're next! We're going straight to admissions."
Mom gets up, folding her leso neatly. "Finally! Let's go before the line grows again."
As we walk, I notice the long queue twisting outside the registration office — parents holding files, girls balancing boxes, everyone looking exhausted already. The air buzzes with mixed emotions — excitement, tension, a few tears.
Felix leans close to Mom. "Don't worry, I called Mrs. Austin. She's waiting for us at the front."
We reach the office and sure enough, a tall woman with a warm but strict face waves us forward.
"This way, please," she says, smiling like she's doing us a huge favor.
We slip past the line, and immediately, I hear a few voices behind us.
"Eh, why are they jumping the line?" one woman mutters.
"Some people think they're special," another whispers, loud enough for me to hear.
My stomach tightens. I lower my head, pretending to scroll through my dad's phone even though I there's no Internet.
Mrs. Austin turns slightly and says, "They just went to get something signed, don't worry."
Her tone is smooth, practiced — like she's done this many times.
Mom just smiles and whispers to me, "See? Connection helps."
I force a small smile. "Yeah, connection," I echo, though my cheeks burn a little.
Inside, the office smells of new files and fresh paper. The teacher behind the desk looks up. "Name?"
"Tamara Dallas," Dad answers proudly.
She searches through a pile, then scribbles something on a form. "Admission number 9746," she says, handing me a card.
9746. The number already feels heavy, like it's about to decide my whole new identity.
We move next to the uniform section. Big cartons are lined up with sizes written in chalk. A lady hands me skirts, blouses, and a sweater.
"Try these on. The changing room is behind the curtain," she says.
Inside the small room, I struggle to pull the stiff blouse over my head. The fabric smells like starch. When I step out, Mom tilts her head and smiles proudly.
"Perfect fit," she says.
Felix laughs. "You look like a soldier now."
Dad chuckles softly. "A soldier ready for exams."
The uniform lady collects my old clothes and hands me a small receipt. "We'll print your admission number on everything. Name tags, socks, sheets, even underwear. We don't want anything lost."
I nod, watching them feed each item through a machine that buzzes softly.
It feels strange, seeing 9746 stitched on everything that's mine — like my name doesn't matter anymore, only this number does.
After what feels like hours, Mrs. Austin returns. "All done?" she asks.
"Yes," Mom says. "Just the dorm left."
"Good," Mrs. Austin says, motioning us to follow. "She'll be in The Queen's Dorm. Form One section, opposite the dormitory section's gate"
We carry the boxes together, the afternoon sun biting at our backs. My heart races with every step. The dorm looms ahead — rows of identical windows, the smell of detergent and fresh paint floating in the air.
Mom stops at the door, wiping sweat from her forehead. "This is it, Tamara," she says quietly. "Your new home."
I stare up at the dorm sign — The Queen's Dorm.
The name sounds royal, but inside, my stomach twists.
It's really happening!!!