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I look for the current principal, whose portrait is the last for obvious reasons. A tall, handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair. Dominic Bradley, it says. He’s been the principal for five years. At least now I know who to look for.
I should have thought of drawing myself a map to the main office when I looked over the online version yesterday. The hallway stretches out in three directions, two of which span the eastern and western wings of the main building, while the third juts out straight ahead from the front door. I’m pretty sure the office is in this direction, so I start walking while my eyes soak in everything around me. I would never guess this was a school, at least not from the entrance. It looks more like a museum.
It’s a relief to see a sign hanging over one room along the hall. Administration Office. That’s where I need to be. I don’t have a roster yet, so I have no idea which classes I’m taking or where to find them. This whole thing is so last minute.
Phones are ringing off the hook, and staff members are hustling back and forth. Maybe ten or fifteen people are already waiting when I get there, and they all have a problem. “But my dad already called. I’m not taking Spanish with her. She’s a bitch, and she failed me last year because she fucking hates me.”
My eyes go wide before I can stop them as the girl at the front of the line shouts at the lady behind the counter. Do people seriously talk to grown-ups that way around here?
I guess so, because the staff member doesn’t even seem surprised. “Like I already told you, Jasmine, only so many Spanish teachers in the school teach it at that level. Short of hiring more staff to accommodate you, I’m not sure what you expect us to do. Your father understood that when he spoke to the principal.”
“So what? What am I supposed to do? Sit there when I know she hates me?” Before the woman can answer, the girl sweeps an arm over the counter and knocks a cup of pens to the floor. “Screw this place. You’re lucky I don’t sue.”
For what? Meanwhile, she’s already halfway down the hall, and I can still hear her shouting about the lawsuit that will end this entire school.
It seems like everybody’s got problems like that. There’s a guy who can’t take physics because it interferes with football practice. There’s another who wants to take the same English class her best friend is taking, even though it would change her entire schedule. Everything seems pretty trivial, and every single person threatens a phone call from their parents.
Who the hell are these kids? Mom would laugh in my face if I asked her to call because I didn’t like my Spanish teacher or I wanted to take English with my friend. And if she ever got a call from the office saying I cursed out one of the staff, I don’t even want to think about how she would react. It would make her look bad, which is the last thing she’d ever put up with.
Finally, it’s my turn. I feel so bad for the woman behind the counter, and I grimace. “Sorry to bother you, but this is my first day. I don’t have my roster yet.”
“Oh, finally. An easy one.” She flips through a bunch of papers and pulls out a thin folder. “Morgan Chambers, is it?”
“That’s right.”
“Welcome, Morgan. I hope you haven’t already gotten a bad opinion of this place.” Before I can reply, she slides the folder my way. “In there, you’ll find your roster and a calendar of activities, and I’ve included a map to help you get around. It’s easy to get lost around here, but you’ll figure it out in a few days. Everybody does.”
“Thank you.” My first class is US history, starting in fifteen minutes.
“Hayes!” she calls out to somebody in the hallway and waves them in over my shoulder. “He’s one of our student ambassadors. Hayes, would you mind showing Morgan to her first class? Maybe give her a small tour before class starts?”
“You know me. Always glad to help.”
His voice shouldn’t be familiar, but it stirs up my memory anyway. I look up from my roster to find a tall, muscular guy standing next to me.
And when our eyes meet, I understand why he sounded familiar. It’s been two weeks, but he’s never been far from my thoughts.
It’s the guy from the bridge.
And judging by the way he’s staring at me with those wide, piercing eyes, he hasn’t forgotten either.
4
Oh, my God.
He hasn’t moved since he recognized me. Neither have I. In my case, I’m too surprised. I never thought I would see him again.
