Mondays are the worst. Especially the first Monday of a new school year, at a new school, when you don’t know a single soul. And like that isn’t bad enough, the school building--Silver Pines Middle--all red brick and window cages, isn’t exactly welcoming, unless you count the guy standing at the second-floor window. I can’t quite make it out, but I’m going with a yeti on the lookout. I give him a three-finger salute, just so he knows I’m on to him.
Kids stream past me, laughing and shouting names as sweat slowly dribbles down my sides. Once inside, everyone but me seems to know exactly where they’re going, and as I dig for my schedule buried inside my book bag, I end up colliding with a kid using an inhaler. We both hit the floor. So much for blending in with the lockers.
“Oh my gosh! I’m so, so sorry! Are you okay?” I scramble to my feet and offer him a hand up.
“I got it,” he says, taking another puff. “That was bound to happen sometime.” He’s still clutching the inhaler in his fist as he stands. Slightly taller than me, with red, spiky hair, he looks like a cartoon character whose finger got stuck in a light socket.
His purple-framed glasses slip down his nose as he deposits his inhaler into the side pocket of his cargo pants.
“My name’s Stuart.” He holds out his hand.
Do middle schoolers shake hands here? I offer limp fingers, and he grabs hold with unexpected enthusiasm. Our gazes lock for an instant, and we smile.
“I’m Darcie.”
“You in seventh?” he asks, still clamping down on my smashed fingers.
My hand wiggles free. “Yep. Just moved here from Riverstone, Oregon. So you are too?…In seventh grade?” The flow of kids parts around us like water around a snag.
“Right, so there’s a good chance we have at least one class together.” He tilts his head toward my schedule. “I memorized mine. Saves time.”
My parents would love this kid.
“Ah! We’ve got two—if you count lunch.” He points to the list of classes. “We could meet in the cafeteria during fourth and walk to civics together.” His eyes widen when I don’t answer right away. “I mean—if that’s okay.” He shifts his pack awkwardly.
“That’d be great,” I say, hardly believing that I actually made a friend.
A bell rings, interrupting us.
“Your first class—math—is down that first hall. Third door on the left.”
I thank him and head that way, humming, “This is my fight song”. Silver Pines Middle might actually be survivable. But, as Mom would say, I need more data. The day has barely started, and a lot can go wrong between now and lunch.
Room 132 is about half-full when I step into the classroom. The seat in the center is empty, and as I slide behind the desk, the buzz in the room stops abruptly.
“That seat’s taken.” A large boy with blond hair and teeth that might belong to a horse glares at me from the next row.
Swallowing, I slowly stand. “I…I’ll move. Sorry.” Snickers come from behind as I move to a desk next to the wall. Is it me, or is it hot in here?
The tardy bell sounds, and the teacher moves front and center, while kids pile through the doorway. No one goes near the middle chair until the last girl enters, well after the bell. She’s tall with long, black hair, and glides to the center seat, blowing air-kisses to the kid with horse teeth. She lowers herself behind the desk like a whisper; the energy in the room crackles around her.
Clearing his throat, the teacher turns and writes his name on the board. Mr. Farnswiddle. Giggles ripple through the room.
“All right, everyone, that will do,” he says. His voice, British or Australian—definitely not American—surprises everyone, and they stop talking. He’s a pretty good-looking guy. Not real tall, but muscular. But Farnswiddle? Seriously?
Procedures are handed out, and a brief syllabus. There’s discussion about classroom expectations, then he gives us a non-graded test.
“The assessment will give me an idea of where you are,” he says. “It will help me determine if anyone needs a bit of extra help. It isn’t graded, just a gauge. Have a go at it and do the best you can.” He licks his thumb and fans through the papers, quickly counting and depositing them on the front desk of each row.
As soon as my fingers touch the page, they start to shake. My eyes fall to the first section: Integers. Um…what? More like hostile numbers daring me to get it wrong. Digits and symbols blur and stretch together and they literally have fangs. Twelve minus negative four. Wait. Is that even possible?
Swallowing the glob in my throat, I glance around quickly. Everyone else works away, pencils scratching out answers on the page—except for one. The girl who came in late. She’s watching, lips open, like she’s deciding if I’m a threat or not.
Mr. Farnwiddle steps between us. He picks up my paper and reads my name. “Miss…Reynolds, is everything all right?” He sets the test on the desk and lowers his voice. “Having trouble getting started?”
“I…no, sir.” Spinning around, I drop my pencil and have to reach under the desk to retrieve it. "Ouch!" My head smacks hard on the way up.
The “tsk” coming from the middle of the room lands like a pebble hitting water, spreading judgement through my entire body as it ripples, but as I turn, she winks. Are we…friends now?
When the bell finally rings, I’m the first one out of my seat. My half-finished test glows neon in the stack of turned-in papers. Head down, I clutch my book bag and hustle towards the door. Just a gauge; no worries. Except now everyone will know I’m terrible at this.
In the hallway, lockers slam and voices bounce off the cement walls. The staring was nothing, right? Just new-girl paranoia. But what about the wink? As I near the science classroom, long black hair disappears into the stairwell, and just like with the Shadow Man, the space she leaves behind is still watching.
By third period, the drama with the girl in math gets pushed to the back of my mind, and I head to the locker room, determined not to embarrass myself.
The gym smells like rubber and something sour—old sweat pretending to be air-freshener. I stand on the blue line with the others, tugging at the hem of my gym shorts, and wishing I’d picked a different elective.
“Alright,” Coach calls, clapping twice. “First day, simple game. Sharks and Minnows.”
Everyone groans. Perfect. This means public running.
Two girls jog to the center circle, grinning like born predators. The rest of us line up against the wall. We’re the prey—the minnows. I glance down at my sneakers and give my legs a silent pep talk.
The girl from math class walks past me, surrounded by a cloud of admirers. I lean over and whisper to the person next to me, “See that girl with the long black hair? Do you know her?”
She scrunches up her nose. “You mean Amelia? Everyone knows her.”
Amelia. Perfectly put together. Her shoelaces even match her shirt.
The whistle blows. “Go!”
Everyone surges forward, spreading out quickly like fallen leaves caught in the wind. Kids sprint across the floor, sneakers squealing. One shark lunges at me. I dodge left—nearly colliding with Amelia, who pivots effortlessly out of the way. She doesn’t even break stride.
“Careful,” she says lightly, “slow minnows are easy targets.”
Heat crawls up my neck, but home-base is nearly within reach. Scuff marks on the wall stand out like graffiti on a train car. My hand reaches out, but someone grabs my wrist.
“Got you!” the shark calls, triumphant.
The back of my neck prickles while I’m bent over gasping for air. When I stand, Amelia tilts her head away and sighs, nose tipped toward the ceiling.
Okay. So that’s how it is.
“Let’s go, people,” Coach calls. “You’re a shark now. Head to the middle.”
Jogging to center court with the other new sharks, there’s only one thing on my mind: winning. As the next round starts, two girls are easy tags, and I quickly become a shark on a mission. At the end of class, Coach blows her whistle, then lifts the arm of the one surviving minnow. It’s Amelia—shark in disguise.
It takes a few minutes to fight my way through the crowd heading to lunch. Amelia and her gang buzz by, completely unaware that the rest of us even exist. It must be nice to be that self-assured instead of always worrying about what everyone thinks.
Inside the cafeteria, kids stack book bags and jackets on tables and chairs, like wolves staking out their territory. Off to my left is a group of kids—mostly boys, but some girls too. They’re all looking in my direction. A few wave.
“Darcie!” Stuart calls. “We saved you a seat.”
Nearing the table, one thing stands out: their unofficial uniform—glasses. Grinning, I push mine up. “Uh. Hi guys.”
They look me over.
“Everyone, this is Darcie. She just moved here from Riverstone, Oregon.”
I smile, impressed that he remembered, and try to memorize the names that are flying at me.
“How was your morning?” he asks, following the millionth introduction. “Probably uneventful, since it’s the first day of school.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say. “What’s with the pecking order here? Is there some sort of secret code no one told me about? Because apparently, a line was crossed when I sat in the wrong seat in math class.”
Stuart winces and unwraps his sandwich. “Better eat. Lunch is only twenty minutes.”
The chatter around us gets louder as more people join the tables.
“Just stick with us,” he says, biting into a pimento cheese sandwich on whole wheat—yuck.
Fragments of conversation from Stuart’s friends drift by me: coding, robotics--then, “…math test a joke? I finished in like ten minutes.”
My ham and cheese turns bitter in my mouth, and I set the sandwich aside. “Us?”
“Yeah,” he waves a hand toward the others at the table. “Us.”
I swallow hard. The idea of spending my life in deep conversation about whether robots have feelings about charging cables has me searching for a lifeline to grab hold of. “What about them?” My head nods toward the table where Amelia sits.
“Them? Best to steer clear. They call themselves The Peaks.” He rolls his eyes.
Peaks. That sounds more my speed. Not math, not technology. “What do Peaks do?”
Stuart shrugs. “Be popular, I guess. I never really thought about it.” He finishes his cheese sandwich and stuffs the baggie into his lunchbox, then jabbers on about how he figured out that we were on the same bus route. “And don’t worry,” he says, “you’ll fit in with us just fine. I knew it as soon as you knocked me down this morning.”
Trying to look grateful isn’t easy when my stomach is having a wrestling match with itself. This kid doesn’t even know me, and he’s already decided I’ll fit in with them? My mind drifts to the math test this morning. She finished in ten minutes? What if I’m not smart enough for this group? What if they see my grades and suddenly decide I’m out? What then?
Amelia’s laugh carries across the table at the center of the room, and everyone bends toward her like she’s magnetic—pretty sure they’re not talking about robotics.
After school, I help Dad with dinner while Mom picks up Andrew at preschool.
“So,” Dad says, dumping a handful of diced onions into a frying pan. “How was your first day at the new school? You survive?”
I push the onions through the melted butter. “I guess.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“There are…groups.”
“Ah,” he squeezes my shoulder. “Like herds of elk. Or rival squirrel factions.”
“Not like that.” I side-bump him.
“Nature is very cliquey.” He adds minced garlic to the pan.
I turn down the burner. “I met a couple of people today.”
The tomatoes he adds to the pan sizzle, and he adds cream. “That sounds promising,”
“I thought I just wanted to play it safe this year,” I say, “you know, slide by unnoticed. But now I don’t think I do. The boy I met—Stuart—he’s nice. Smart.” I bite my lip, “But the girl? She’s got…layers.”
He lets out a slow breath. “Sounds like she could be a challenge.”
“Her group’s called ‘The Peaks’.” The sauce bubbles harder now. “People look up to them. Nobody laughs—or challenges them. They’re not scared of anything.”
Dad wipes his hands on a towel. “Like mountains. They look fearless from a distance, but up close, they can be treacherous.”
“Maybe so, but I’m tired of being afraid. If I can get them on my side...I could be the alpha."
He tilts my chin until I meet his eyes. “Darcie, you can do anything you put your mind to, and you’re already a great leader.”
My gaze drops, and he squeezes my shoulder. “Just…make smart choices.”
His words press down on my ribs. I nod. Tomorrow, I’m choosing not to be the scared girl. Tomorrow, I’m climbing that mountain.