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“But—I didn’t sign up for drama. It’s supposed to be an elective—”
“You’re a freshman. You get what’s available.”
I’m not sure that’s the complete truth. But I go with it. “There has to be any other open elective available. I’ll take anything.”
She shakes her head. “It’s too late for schedule changes.” Now that is a lie.
The first warning bell rings.
Shit.
One minute to get to class.
With a defeated sigh, I reclaim my class schedule and adjust my bookbag strap.
“Zoey,” Mrs. Shields says.
I’m not dumb enough to be hopeful as I glance up. “Yeah?”
Her eyes flame. “Tell your dad to stay on the lake. It’s where he belongs.”
Cold slips down my spine.
I’m unsurprised she knows my dad became a deckhand just a few weeks ago. It was the biggest gossip in town. Nicholas Durand will be away for nine months out of the year!
My dad’s decision to work on a lake freighter wasn’t easy. He loved The Drunk Pelican so much he put every dime of his personal savings into that place. But I know he loves Brian, Colt, and me more. He must’ve thought leaving town would make things easier for us. Part of me thinks it’ll just be harder. Not having a dad around.
I already don’t have a mom.
Tell your dad to stay on the lake. It’s where he belongs. Her words echo in my head. A snarky retort dies in my throat. So I just give Mrs. Shields a nod and slip out of the front office.
The hallway is almost empty, except for a janitor. He mops up wet puddles and unfurls yellow signs that warn of slick floors.
I tuck my umbrella under my arm, walking brisky. Slipping.
Only in Mistpoint Harbor would I need an umbrella when it’s not even raining outside. The first day of high school marks the death of Lenard Doyle and Madeline Mackay in 1894. After a vicious rainstorm, the school flooded, and the two students drowned in a locked broom closet.
Legend goes, Mistpoint High has been cursed ever since, and the first day of every school year, ceilings spring uncontrollable leaks. And it’s not like ghosts walk these hallowed halls and summon downpours.
I just think it’s some strange destiny. Some sort of magnetic shift on this one spot in the world that makes bad shit happen.
Like deaths in broom closets.
Like leaky ceilings.
Catching my balance, I bypass posters on the walls that read:
In Memory of Doyle & Mackay,
Grab Your Umbrella.
I manage to pick up pace and jog towards the Fine Arts hall, all without face-planting. The final bell rings when I’m a foot from the doorway.
And I watch as the teacher closes the door on my face.
“Wai—”
Slam!
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Why didn’t I just stick my umbrella inside and jam the door? Regret pummels me about as much as fear.
Now I have to make a grand entrance.
Okay, I can do this.
No, I have to do this. There is no alternative. I’m not planning on skipping class forever and flunking out of ninth grade.
I cage a breath and open the door.
All the students are already seated. And they’re staring at me. Heads turn like I’ve swiveled a spotlight over my bowed shoulders and flushed neck.
Water drips onto my hot cheek.
I look up. Ceiling tiles concave with moisture. Droplets drip throughout the classroom like a light shower, and students have already drawn the hoods of their rain jackets. Others hold their opened umbrellas, as though bad luck is such an occurrence here, opening an umbrella indoors couldn’t possibly add more.
Only in Mistpoint Harbor, I think again.
“You’re late,” the teacher barks from his desk. Mr. Owens is a wiry man with curly strawberry-blond hair and a red beard. His blue Mistpoint Seagull umbrella shadows his angered eyes.
I’m burning up under the attention.
He can’t be any older than Brian. Late twenties, probably.
“I’m sorry. I was, um, in the front office.” I scope out an open desk. Shying over the intrusive gazes of my peers. Teenagers I’ve seen all my life, yet they’ve avoided me like I’ve carried the bubonic plague.
They still stare at me like I’m a walking infection.
I spot a vacant seat in the back. One foot towards my freedom from this horrible spotlight—and Mr. Owens approaches me.
“Wait right there,” he demands.
Shit.
He crosses the room, clasping his umbrella and a mason jar filled with slips of paper. My stomach overturns.
Nooooo.
Please, nooo.
“I didn’t think I’d have to get this out on the first day, but there’s a first for everything.” The surliness in his voice shrinks me another two inches. He directs his attention to the entire class. “If any of you are late for the final bell, there will be consequences.”
He extends the mason jar to me. “Take a piece of paper.”
I dig into the jar.
Mr. Owens eyes me harder. “Your name?”
“Zoey.” I pluck a folded slip.
“Last name?”
“Durand.”
Several students who didn’t recognize me at first glance—they noticeably squirm in their seats. Others lean into their friends, whispering.
