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I’m not sure that’s how it’s gonna work.

“Also...you’ve never been at a coed school before, but you may find there’s...” Her gaze drifts toward a trio of girls who have burned the dress code and danced on its ashes—one of them has her shirt unbuttoned so much that I can see the front clasp of her bra. “Things will be different. Girls will do things to get attention, and boys will pressure you and put you in situations where you’re not sure what’s right.”

I sigh, finally giving in to the frustration that’s been mounting for weeks. My parents live in perennial fear that I will somehow turn into Mary Joyce, my cousin, who started acting up in high school and eventually ran away, though I’ve never once given them reason to worry. “Mom, do you see these girls? No boy here is even going to notice me.”

She frowns, staring off into the distance. “I wish that were true, but it’s not.” It’s as if she’s seen something that I don’t, but what could she possibly see? She’s got no more experience with the outside world than I have: she attended Bright Covenant Women’s School like I did and left the mission one day after she turned eighteen to marry my dad.

By the end of this school year, I’ll probably know more about men in the real world than she ever will, for better or worse.

I say goodbye and walk toward the entrance, ignoring the sideways glances, the quiet snickers as I pass by half-dressed girls.

I’ll survive the laughter. I’ll survive being the only one who follows the dress code and being the daughter of a headmaster the entire senior class apparently hates.

I just hope I don’t run into Ford today. Every time I remember what I said to him—we definitely won’t be in the same classes—it sounds more awful and judgmental than it did before. And at the same time, I can’t believe I’m worried about how I came across. He tried to burn down my house. I’m allowed to be as awful and judgmental as I want to be, under the circumstances.

I find my locker, glancing at my wrist for the combination I wrote there. At my last school, locks weren’t even necessary—no one would dream of taking things that weren’t theirs. Sometimes I felt a little too hemmed in at Bright Covenant—being there was like having a blanket wrapped around you a little too tight. But that’s still better than having no blanket at all.

My first class is AP English. I find the room and take a desk in the front row, ignoring the whispers behind me. A couple is making out near the door, even though the teacher stands five feet away. They kiss sloppily, in a way I find equal parts titillating and repulsive, and I finally look away, at my desk, where two sets of initials are carved, surrounded by a heart.

Imagine having someone like you enough to carve your initials into a desk. Imagine liking someone enough to kiss him like that until the moment class begins. Ann will be appalled when I tell her—in the Bright Covenant community, you can’t even hold hands with someone until you are engaged. But I can’t deny this longing inside me for a little of this world.

Sometimes it seems as if every teenager outside of New Hope has a life straight out of a teen movie.

“Mr. Jackson,” the teacher finally says to the male half of the couple, “I think that’s enough. Please take your seat.”

The boy sends the girl off with a pat to her bottom, shooting a cocky grin at the class as he strolls in, and right behind him...is Ford James. He looks even bigger than he did before, from my seated position, and he has five o’clock shadow. It’s not even eight AM, for heaven’s sake.

His hazel eyes meet mine. “Looks like we’re in the same classes after all,” he says as he passes.

Dammit. I flush again, thinking about how snotty I was in the garage. Since when are football players with criminal records in AP English?

He takes a seat somewhere behind me and I tug at my ponytail, making sure the birthmark is covered.

“Is that her?” whispers a male voice in the back.

“Yeah,” Ford grunts, as if reluctant to answer. I’m a waste of his breath.

His friend whispers something—I hear only the phrase bend her over that desk and...I’m not sure what it was, but it sounded like a threat.

“JJ,” says Mrs. Onorato, our teacher, “unless you’d like to share your commentary with the rest of the class, please stop whispering to Ford.”

Roll is called, and then the teacher leads us in morning prayer, which is met with snickers and groans. It’s one of my father’s changes, meant to heal, I’m sure, but it’s not the way to reach a bunch of teens who never signed on for this.

Until Bright Covenant took over Penhallow at the end of the previous year, it was a secular prep school. Parents accused us of being a cult, of planning to “convert” their children, and to some extent, they’re right. Bright Covenant has been slowly purchasing flailing or mismanaged private schools around the country, trying to grow its membership—but is that a bad thing? Yes, my father added a dress code and the morning prayer, but none of the rigid covenant rules have been instituted aside from that, as attested to by the couple groping each other a few moments ago. Lots of students will leave here and never think of us again, but if a few people choose a different path because of us, is that so wrong?

A balled-up piece of paper hits my head as the prayer concludes. I refuse to turn around and give Ford the satisfaction, but it’s five after eight and I’m already done with this entire situation.

“This will be your reading list this year,” announces Mrs. Onorato, giving a stack of papers to the student nearest her. “I know it looks like a lot, but if you’re in this class, I also know you’re perfectly capable of handling the workload.”

I take the stack and pass it behind me, carefully avoiding Ford’s gaze, which I’m sure is absolutely triumphant.

“Ugh,” groans a girl beside me. “Every book on this list was written before 1940.”

I glance at the paper in my hand...and my stomach drops.

She’s wrong. Many of them are more current than that, which I know because they were on the list of banned books for all the schools in New Hope. Encourages rebellion against societal norms, the list said of Brave New World.

My father couldn’t possibly know that this is what we’re reading. And he’d consider it my duty to tell him. But...am I not already hated enough here? Do I really need to make my English teacher hate me too, when my dad forces her to change a year of lesson plans?