Caged

Chapter 1

The skirt is shorter than I expected.

I ordered it off Alderton's website two weeks ago, followed their size chart, picked my usual size. And now I'm standing in front of the mirror pulling it down every three seconds like that's going to add fabric.

It's not adding fabric.

I turn sideways. Then I turn back. Neither angle helps.

Same face, same problem as always. Two eyes, two different colors, and somehow that's an invitation for every stranger on the planet to lean in and go, "Oh wow, are those real?" Like heterochromia is a party trick I do for attention.

Left eye: blue. Not dramatic blue. Pool-before-anyone-gets-in blue.

Right eye: green. Almost see-through in certain light.

Together they make people stare, which makes me want to disappear, which is why I own three pairs of glasses I don't need.

I put on the brown ones. Thick frames, tinted lenses, the kind that say "I read a lot and that's my whole personality." They take the weirdness down from a ten to a six. A six I can work with.

Hair: low bun, not cute, just out of the way. Lips: still too big for my face, both of them. I used to hate them in middle school. Then I decided hating a part of my own face was a waste of time I could spend hating other things. Plus I'll save money on lip fillers someday. Silver lining.

I lean close to the mirror.

"You're going to be fine. It's one year. One year and you're out."

The girl in the mirror doesn't look convinced.

Downstairs, Mom is stress-cooking. The counter is covered with eggs, toast, sliced fruit arranged in a fan like we're hosting someone important.

She's in scrubs already. The patch says Calder Veterinary with a little paw print underneath. Our name, stitched into a uniform, in a town where nobody knows us yet. My throat goes tight for a second. I swallow it down.

"You want a ride?" she asks, not looking up from the eggs.

"I'll drive."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Mom. I'm sure."

She looks up. Studies me the way she studies animals, quick and clinical, checking for signs of distress. Whatever she sees, she lets it go.

"You look nice."

"I look like a substitute teacher."

"Text me when you get there."

"I will."

"And when you get home."

"I will."

"And if anything..."

"Mom." I pick up a piece of toast. Dry. I eat it anyway because if I don't she'll worry more than she's already worrying, and she's already worrying enough to power a small city. "I'll be fine."

She nods. She doesn't believe me either.

* * *

I mapped the route three times last week. I always do this. Get there first, walk the halls empty, find the classrooms, the locker, the exits. Know where everything is before the building fills up.

People who move with purpose look like they belong.

Alderton Prep shows up around the corner and my first thought is: it's trying too hard. Three stories, red brick, white columns, a fountain with an eagle on it. An actual eagle on a fountain in front of a high school.

The student lot is Range Rovers and Audis and a Tesla parked across two spots. And in the front row, angled into the spot closest to the entrance like it was assigned to royalty: a black Porsche 911.

A 911 in a high school parking lot. How painfully on the nose.

I keep driving. Three blocks east there's a municipal lot. Public parking, I'll get a ticket, but twenty dollars is worth not being seen. I'll figure out a better plan by Wednesday.

I park between a minivan and a pickup. Both bigger than my car. I grab my backpack and walk toward school, but I don't go in yet.

There's a row of old oaks between the lot and the side entrance. I stand in the shade and watch. Students trickle in. Two girls in matching sunglasses. Nervous freshmen walking too fast.

Then a group of guys rounds the corner from the lot.

Five or six, all built the same way. Wide shoulders, narrow waists, athletes. They walk like the sidewalk was poured specifically for them.

Every school has them. I learned early to stay out of their orbit. Not because they're all bad, but because once you're visible to that crowd you stay visible. And visible is the last thing I need.

One of them is talking, hands moving, the others angled toward him. Tall, easy in his own skin. Face that makes you look twice. Then annoyed at yourself for looking. Alpha with a jawline. Groundbreaking.

I file them under "avoid" and move on.

I notice the skirts on other girls. Same length, same cut. Same flash of thigh on the steps. The official uniform, approved by a room full of adults in business casual who thought: yes, this is fine.

I make a mental note: order fabric. Take the skirt apart, add a panel, make it exactly the length I want. Everyone else can wear what they were given. I don't wear what I'm given. I fix it until it works for me.

I check the time. Thirty-two minutes before first bell. I adjust my glasses, tighten my bun, hike my backpack higher.

"One year," I say to no one. "Survive. Graduate. Go."

I pull the door open.

The hallway is half-empty, which is what I wanted. Lockers on both sides, trophy case running the length of one wall. I'm matching room numbers to the map in my head when someone says "Hey" from my left and I almost jump out of my skin.

A girl is sitting on the floor next to a locker with her legs stretched across the hallway like she's daring someone to trip over them. Dark curly hair, brown skin, a face that's already smiling before she has a reason to. She's rolled the sleeves of her blazer up to the elbows and pinned a small enamel cactus to her collar.

"You look lost," she says. "But like, on purpose. Like you already know where everything is and you're just double-checking."

Nobody has ever described me that accurately within five seconds of meeting me.

"I'm Bea. Beatriz, technically, but nobody calls me that unless I'm in trouble."

"Romy."

"New?"

"That obvious?"

"Only because you came in through the side entrance. Nobody uses that door except janitors and people who googled the floor plan." She grins. "I did the same thing freshman year. Took me a week to figure out nobody cares which door you use."

She stands up. Shorter than me, compact, takes up more space than her body should.

"What's your first class?"

"AP Calc."

"Brutal. I have AP Bio. Same direction though." She glances at me. "You want me to walk with you or are you more of a solo mission kind of person? No judgment."

I should say solo mission. That's the plan. No attachments, no friends, one clean year and out.

But Bea is already walking beside me and she smells like coffee and something sweet and she didn't ask about my eyes.

"Walk with me," I say.

The hallway feels a little less like enemy territory with someone next to me.

The plan was zero friends. I haven't made it to first period and I've already broken that rule.

One year. I can do one year.