“You still look tired,” he says, slipping an arm around my waist.
“Dreams.” I grab my backpack from the closet. “You look kind of wiped, too.”
“Yeah, well, I had a lot on my mind. But none of that today, right? First day of school! Aren’t you excited?”
He’s giving me a look that suggests he’s the polar opposite of excited, and I laugh.
“I know. I usually like school, but it’s hard to get enthused. I mean, I like that I’ll have classes with you. And Charlayne will be there—that’s a plus . . . I think. But so will Eve and her groupies, and there’ll be a bunch of new Cyrist teachers. I kind of feel like we’re walking into a snake pit.”
“Thanks, Kate. Way to make the new guy even more nervous.”
“Oh, give me a break,” I say, closing the door behind us. “I’ve never seen you in any social situation where you seemed even the slightest bit nervous.”
We arrive at Briar Hill with only a few minutes to spare. I point Trey toward his homeroom, which is, unfortunately, not the same as mine. He gives my hand a brief squeeze before he walks off. It’s a very clandestine squeeze, since we’re both pretty sure that the PDA rules are about to undergo a drastic overhaul.
I slide into my seat just as the first bell rings and glance around. The first thing I notice is Charlayne, two seats behind me. She gives me a little finger wave when I catch her eye and then turns back to say something to a guy seated on her right. The second thing I notice is that all of the new girls, most of whom I assume are from Carrington Day, and maybe a quarter of the girls I recognize from my classes last year at Briar Hill, are in a different style of uniform. The blue-and-gold plaid skirt that hits about an inch above the knee has been replaced with a longer beige skirt that’s only a few inches shorter than the one I’ve been wearing in 1905.
Apparently some of us missed a memo.
Two teachers—one I vaguely remember seeing in the halls last year and the other a short, middle-aged guy I’ve never seen before—are passing out folders of some sort. The new teacher slides one of the folders onto my desk, and I note the lotus tattoo on his hand. I hadn’t really looked at the tattoo on any of the male Cyrists, and I’m surprised to see that it’s blue, instead of the pink they use on the girls. I have to choke back a laugh, but it’s only partially successful, and I pretend I’m coughing to cover. The folder must be something that was used last year, because there’s a Carrington Day logo—a Spartan helmet with a Cyrist symbol on the side.
Eve and one of the three girls Charlayne tagged as an “Evelette” stroll into class just as the final bell sounds. Seats are assigned, so Eve is near the front. Her friend must be closer to the end of the alphabet, because she gives Eve a little pout and starts toward the back of the classroom. She’s only taken a few steps when she spots me and then hurries back to whisper something in Eve’s ear. Eve wrinkles her nose in distaste and flashes me an annoyed look, then whispers something back to the other girl, and they both laugh.
The Smart Board blinks to life for the morning announcements, and the Briar Hill mascot, a falcon that looks like the artist played too much Angry Birds, appears in his usual spot at the middle of the opening screen. Instead of his normal deep blue feathers and gold beak, however, he’s an odd plum shade. A collective groan goes up, not just from the Briar Hill crew but from everyone, followed by assorted grumbles.
The Briar Hill teacher finally says, “Enough. You’ll have time to voice your opinions later. And the answer to any questions you have is in the folder.”
The Pledge is apparently not recited at Carrington Day, because they sit silent and stiff at their desks while the rest of us stand. After we’re done, it’s our turn to sit uncomfortably as they all rise to face the Cyrist symbol on the screen and recite the Creed. When they reach the part where they say, “Enemies of The Way will face our Wrath and Judgment,” Eve shoots me a look. She’s clearly trying to get under my skin, and it would almost be funny if it wasn’t also kind of sick. With everything that’s on the line right now, everything the Cyrists are planning, Eve is still interested in stupid schoolgirl games.
I wait until Eve and her friend push through the door and then stuff the magical answers-to-everything folder into my bag.
Charlayne is standing next to my desk when I look up. “Well, that was enlightening,” she says. “Did you hear what Bensen, the guy sitting next to me, called the new bird mascot? The Purple Pigeon. I think that has a certain ring to it.”
“Or maybe they should switch things up,” I say. “We could paste the blue-and-gold plaid from the Briar Hill uniforms on the Carrington Day mascot, and he’d be the Tartan Spartan.”
We merge into the flow in the hallway. Everyone seems much taller now that the middle school crowd has been shipped over to Carrington.
“That’s even better,” she says. “And maybe the Tartan Spartan could carry the Purple Pigeon around on his shoulder. This could be good. Too bad no one will listen to us.”
“Yeah. Although to be honest, I’m not really into the whole school-spirit thing.”
“I can see why, with a bird for a mascot.” She turns to the side so that I can see the emblem stitched to her backpack—a guy with a purple helmet and cape that hangs slightly open to reveal his well-muscled arms and torso. “But I liked our Spartan. He’s ho—” She stops, takes a deep breath, and rephrases. “He’s . . . historical.”
I laugh. Non-Cyrist Charlayne is still in there. Most definitely.
“Yeah,” I say. “Historical is nice. And he’s also wicked hot.”
Charlayne rolls her eyes, but the sides of her mouth twitch, and it takes several seconds for her to tamp down the grin that’s trying to sneak out.
“If you say so,” she says primly. “I hadn’t really noticed.”
I glance around the cafeteria for Trey, but I can’t find him. I only need to watch one side of the room, however, because an invisible line runs through the center, separating the Cyrists from the more familiar Briar Hill faces. The one positive thing I can say about the merger is that it seems to have at least partially erased the social cliques that divided us. There’s a sense of solidarity, and several students I’m pretty sure didn’t know I existed last year gave me friendly smiles in the hallway. They probably don’t have a clue who I am, and probably don’t care, but the shorter plaid skirt tags me as one of us, not one of them.
I finally locate Trey at the other entrance to the cafeteria and give him a wave. We merge into the line and pick out a few of the less icky options. Apparently the cluster of kids directly in front of us is used to a better assortment, because they whine and complain all the way to the cashier. And, yes, Briar Hill’s lunches do kind of suck. If not for the salad bar and yogurt, I’d definitely pack a lunch from home. But their tone still gets under my skin, and I suspect the same is true for the servers, because one of them plops a scoop of mashed potatoes onto a Cyrist guy’s plate hard enough for it to splatter onto his shirt. And she doesn’t look the least bit sorry.
We’ve just found an empty table, close to the virtual Berlin Wall, when Charlayne and the guy from homeroom, the one she called Bensen, drop their backpacks into the other two chairs.
Charlayne scans our food. “You’re the only person I know who’s survived a Briar Hill lunch. Can I assume the chicken sandwiches and fries are edible?”
“The fries aren’t bad, but Trey’s gambling with that sandwich. The salad bar is good. Real bacon, not the fake stuff, assuming it’s not already gone.”
As I suspected, bacon is a major selling point for Charlayne. She smiles and tugs at the guy’s arm. “Come on, Ben.”
I’m returning her smile when it occurs to me that something is wrong with this picture. It was natural for Charlayne to walk with me to history, since we’re in the same class. But then she walked with me to second period, and gym isn’t exactly on the way to the Arts Annex. She was also near my locker between third and fourth period, and now she and Ben are the sole Cyrists sitting in the Land of the Unwashed Heathen.