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They walk away, disappearing through a set of double doors on the other side of the hall and into a courtyard. I only see rain pummeling a picnic table before the doors close again.
Turning, I whip open the office door, turning my phone on silent before I step up to the desk.
“Morning,” I tell the receptionist, taking in her jeans and T-shirt. A lanyard filled with keys sits around her neck. “I’m Dylan Trent. Your Shelburne Falls Exchange Student for the next two weeks.”
She glances up, giving me a close-lipped smile as she pulls a pair of dirty sneakers from somewhere under the counter and holds them out. I look behind me to see a girl standing next to the chairs. She darts her eyes from the receptionist to me and then drops her gaze, quickly pushing her hair behind her ear as she grabs the shoes. The ankles of her jeans are soaked three-inches high, and her feet are red from the cold in her pink flipflops.
I flash my eyes back up to her and then quickly turn away.
She leaves.
“Codi!” the receptions calls after her.
I watch as the red-haired woman, whose ID card on her lanyard says Michelle Something, tosses the student a whiteball that looks like rolled-up socks. I don’t turn to watch the girl catch them.
The door opens, students’ voices pour in from the hallway, and then it closes again, leaving us alone.
“Do you have the permission slip?” the lady asks me.
I pause, taking a minute to remember the form Farrow had me sign last night. I pat the back pocket of my jeans, feeling the folded paper I’d tucked away last night.
Digging it out, I unfold it and hand it to her, my heart skipping a beat, because my school knows what my parents’ signatures look like. Almost as quickly as they know my cousin Hawke’s mom’s signature, because her signature is an autograph and people pay attention to that.
But…the receptionist only glances at it before setting it aside.
I relax.
“Now,” she says, handing me one sheet after another, “as is customary, your assignments at your home school will be excused, but you are required to do your work here, except for anything due after your last day.”
Sounds fair.
“Here’s your schedule.” She slides a paper over to me.
I don’t think I’ve gotten a hard copy of my schedule in high school ever. But I suppose I won’t have an account in whatever software system they use for their students to keep track of their records and grades digitally.
“Your locker assignment is at the top,” she tells me.
I scan the schedule first, making sure everything is comparable to what I’m taking now. English 4, TASK which I assume is a study period. Intro to Economics instead of Pre-calculus—sweet. Government and the Constitution instead of Eastern World Heritage—which will be easy, because I took Government last year. And Forensic Science which Idon’t need, because I’ve already completed the minimum science requirement for graduation. I open my mouth to tell her, but I paused too long and she’s talking again.
“You have a complimentary lunch allowance,” she tells me. “When you go through the cafeteria, just tell them your name.”
Which is nice for a school that can’t even afford the arts.
She pushes another paper at me. “Can you please check this information? Make sure it’s correct?”
I drop my eyes, reading over all of my personal details—address, phone number, emergency contact, parents, my allergy to shellfish…Jesus. “How did…”
But I stop speaking when she answers her phone. It makes sense to think Hunter gave them all of this info, but I don’t think he did. Farrow Kelly called my mom last night. Maybe she told him.
The receptionist hangs up the phone, and I read her name tag as she makes her way back over to me.Michelle Howard.
“Did a student from St. Matthew’s volunteer, Ms. Howard?”
She smiles, but her eyebrows pinch together sympathetically. “They usually don’t.”
Right.I told Kade they were stuck up.
It might be nice not to be the only hostage, but it’s not like I would’ve had a friend in a St. Matthew’s student, either.
