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There’s a new girl.
When new people come to Elkwood, they’re always scrutinized, always observed, casually taken in. Within a week, tops, they’ll find out where they fit on the social ladder.
They might stray towards the Ambiguous Whites, maybe the Asians and Gamers, the drama kids, or if they end up hitting the jackpot—to most people, at least— they’ll end up sitting with ALO and the White Bros™.
My first glance at the new girl tells me that she can’t really fit into any of these groups, which is absolutely abnormal. In fact, before I saw the new girl, I heard about her.
Amber had come by my locker earlier today, all chirpy and trying not to act like just two days ago, she’d tried to dictate who I sat with just so that she could stay in Brett’s good books and win the StuCo elections.
I’m not impressed, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t listen to her. We had something resembling a deal, after all, and I guess I’m not planning on breaking it.
Rewinding to earlier this morning, Amber had leaned in close, asking, “have you seen the new girl?”
Then, at that point, Leslie had popped out of nowhere like some cursed apparition, hissing, “I think she’s Indian.”
I had half a mind to ask if she was referring to actual Indians from South Asia, or if the sky had fallen, and there was actually a Native American at Elkwood.
However, I stopped myself real quick, because I know my townspeople are highly unlikely to be referring to a South Asian. Also, I’m not all that convinced that Leslie’s capable of pointing out the country of India on a map, either way.
Had I gone ahead and asked: “Do you mean a Native American? An Indigenous person? The first people to tread this land?” I’m sure Leslie would’ve rolled her eyes and muttered something borderline racist, that I would’ve decidedly chosen to ignore.
I’d known then—with the frenzy illustrated on their faces— that the new girl wasn’t a white-passing or ambiguous Native American, this was someone who was clearly non-white, and therefore went startlingly uncategorized in the Elkwood status quo.
Now that I’m glancing at the new girl, I see long black hair falling down to her waist, the pretentious Elkwood uniform hanging from her slender body, olive skin bright and unabashed, and eyes scouting the area with something resembling skepticality.
A curious grin curves onto my lips. Really, I should say something, talk to her.
Not that I would, though. However, something curls at my insides when I realize that she—just like me— doesn’t necessarily have a group of people like her in Elkwood, no one she can identify with. I hate that, because all of a sudden, I see myself from a few years ago, walking through these hallways, being the odd one out. Being the only person like me.
The warning bell rings, and the new girl turns a corner, long hair swishing as she enters a classroom. I let out a breath, turning towards my own classroom, intensely resisting the urge to look back.
***
The new girl continues to be a topic for the next two classes. People don’t make an extremely huge deal out of her presence, but the whole buzz surrounding her presence is unnecessary. Thing is, at Elkwood, you don’t want people talking about you. It rarely ever means something positive.
Second period comes, and class starts, everyone seated, eyes flickering to somewhere in the room. I glance in the direction of their gazes, and sure enough, the new girl sits there, hands clasped over her desk, eyes on the teacher instead of the dozens of students watching her.
“We have a new student,” Ms. Wilson smiles, beckoning for the new girl to rise to her feet. “Introduce yourself to the class.”
“Laura,” She says, hands tapping at her sides.
“One interesting thing about yourself?” Ms. Wilson asks.
“I was on the swim team in my old school,” Laura says with a shrug.
“Very nice,” Ms. Wilson says, ushering her back to her seat. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a swim team here.” She shrugs, letting out a little laugh while adjusting her floral blouse.
Laura purses her lips before giving a half smile, “That’s too bad.”
“Indeed,” Ms. Wilson says blandly before returning to today’s topic for history class.
“Well, time to go over the Post-Classical Era,” Ms. Wilson says, clapping her hands together as some members of the class let out quiet groans.
***
The bell rings, signalling that history class is over. As usual, the whole class was uncomfortable to sit through, and Brett was adding his unnecessary input throughout the entire period. Not to mention that my history was completely absent from today’s class. So, essentially, history class today wasn’t anything abnormal.
I shuffle all my supplies into my backpack, slinging it over my shoulders in one smooth motion. Soon, I’m down the hall, opening my locker, only to be greeted by a multitude of books hurtling down at me.
They clatter to the ground, making the surrounding students glance towards me, some raising their hands to their mouths to conceal laughter.
I shouldn’t have stuffed everything in my locker last time.
Clearly, my one brain cell might not be functioning the way it should.
With this in mind, I stoop down to the ground, clearing my supplies from the floor, a string of curses flying through my mind. That is, until a hand scrapes some stray pens from the floor, holding them out to me.
My mouth parts. Not in Elkwood. Whenever my things fall to the ground, people’ll ignore it, and if they’re feeling real generous, they’ll kick it away, out of my reach. Helping out? They’ve never heard of her.
So, who the hell is actually helping me out?
My eyes drift upwards, and there she is. Laura. Her mouth is drawn into a casual line, and I take the pens out of her hands, with a “thank you.”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” She glances about, catching the eyes of the surrounding students. “It didn’t look like anyone else was about to help.”
Welcome to Elkwood, I think, dryly.
I purse my lips, rising to my feet with my supplies in hand. “Kids here are more... independent.”
A slightly raised eyebrow hints that Laura doesn’t buy my halfhearted excuse, either.
“Or,” She says as I stuff my supplies in my locker and remove my lunch bag from it, “they just have crap personalities.”
I crack a smile at that. “Or that,” I agree, in a much quieter tone as Laura lets out a laugh.
Her eyes meet mine. “Laura.”
Maintaining her gaze, I exhale my name. “Amina.” She nods at that as I sling my backpack over my shoulder.
Laura waits for a couple of moments, and I find myself falling into step with her, heading in the direction of the cafeteria.
“They were staring at me like I’d grown a third head,” Laura says in a lower tone.
“Like you didn’t belong here,” I say, almost automatically. After all, I’m not unfamiliar with those expressions.
Laura glances over at me, curiously, with a nod, as we enter the cafeteria. I pass by ALO’s table, instead, heading over to my singular table.
“Ironic,” Laura says, smoothly, as we slide into seats across from each other.
I exhale a soft laugh, ignoring the eyes that turn towards us. That one word just about sums it up.
She pulls out a sandwich, a self-satisfied grin curving onto her lips.
I can practically feel Amber’s glare burning through my flesh from the other side of the cafeteria. I don’t turn around. Laura lets herself lean back in her seat while she eats, and I have to respect her easy, self-assured demeanor, the way she didn’t hesitate sitting with me on her first day.
“You’re fine here?” I ask, glancing over at Yasmine who seems to be in deep conversation with Jennifer and one of the gamers. I glance back at Laura.
“I’d hope so,” Laura says, dryly.
“No, I mean, sitting next to me will probably destroy any chance you have of not being othered. Essentially social suicide.” I amend.
Laura purses her lips, scanning the cafeteria, before turning to me, deadpanning. “I think I’ll live if these people don’t like me.”
A half smile curves onto my lips.
“So, I saw some posters around here,” She says, pursing her lips. “Stu-Co elections?” She asks.
“Oh, yeah.” I say, thinking of Amber's posters. “Seems like this year’s elections are going to be uneventful, though.”
Laura hums, tucking a dark strand behind her ear. “I’ve seen Stu-Co elections at my old school. Maybe I’ll sign up,” She says, with a shrug.
Before I can reply, a pale hand slaps the table, drawing our attention to the owner of it. I’m just about ready to say something to Amber when I see that it isn’t Amber, but Brett.
He sits a few seats away from us, manspreading in his typical fashion. “So... you,” He says, turning to Laura, the entire comfort at the table vanishing into thin air.
“Yeah?” Laura replies, glancing at me, briefly.
“You’re new here. Why’d you move?” He asks, leaning forward.
“Many reasons,” she replies, voice easy as the wind.
There’s an awkward few moments of silence, and I poke at my mac and cheese with my fork, eyebrows scrunched together as I analyze Brett.
“Heard you say that you’re thinking of running for president,” Brett says, breaking into the silence.
Laura raises her eyebrows, voice calm, but eyes suspiciously cutting into Brett. “Yeah, I think I will.” Pause. “It’s great to try new things, take risks.”
There almost seems to be a stare-off, cutting glances being exchanged. Laura’s already challenging Brett without saying a word. She’s being subtle about it, of course, but she’s not cowering. She’s resisting.
I realize, with my eyes intense, back straightened and posture firm, I’m deathly close to doing the same thing.
Brett lets out a low laugh. “I’m sure you took plenty of risks at your old school.”
Something crosses over Laura’s face, and her eyes remain steady on Brett, feet tapping the floor, gently.
Brett taps the table, rising to his feet with a laugh. “Maybe I’ll run, too.” He smirks. “Like you said, it’s good to take risks.”
Then he adjusts the collar of his vest, running a hand through his hair as he saunters away from our table.
I’m barely processing what just happened, or the undertones of Brett’s snide comment, but Laura returns to her sandwich, eyes suddenly fascinated by the array of windows to our right.
“Running would be a good idea,” I say, without a second thought. Laura glances at me and my lips curve up, slightly. “And I mean, if you wanted, I could...” A pause, an exhale. “I could be your campaign manager?”
I blink at my own words. After all, I’m already a campaign manager for Amber. However, with her, I’m stifled; a prop, a tool.
Despite having been able to brush it off earlier in the campaign, something deep inside my chest wants me to be free, something in my chest believes that I’m more than just a tool to be disposed of at the end of the day.
Laura stares at me for a moment, a smirk breaking out onto her lips as she eyes the center table from where we’re seated. Her gaze returns to mine and her smirk widens, the shine in her eyes mirroring mine.
“Alright,” She says, leaning forward with a sly glint to her eyes, “Let’s knock ‘em dead.”
