There was no denying that the school grounds were magnificent. The Greek Revival estate had a connected wing on each side and a white balcony that wrapped around the entire second floor. A large crucifix with a green patina sat atop the cupola on the roof. Every window shined. Workers bustled about, busy getting the courtyard landscaping back to its pre-Storm state.

As I walked through the giant iron archway that spelled out "S A C R É C Œ U R" I remembered riding up the hill on the back of Émile's Vespa to the original Sacré Cœur in Paris. From atop the steps, we had watched the sun set over the city. The view from the hilltop basilica had been worth the trip to Paris in itself.

Despite the symbolic pair of hearts sculpted every few feet into the concrete base of the Academy, I had a feeling this Sacred Heart wasn't going to be as romantic.

Wandering into the main building, I tried not to gawk at the other students. The halls were full of the kind of beauty only money could buy: glistening teeth, shiny coifs, sparkly jewelry on French-manicured fingernails, and these were only the obvious details. Hair extensions, nose jobs, and even breast implants enhanced some of the more permanently modified minors.

I pulled down my bun so my hair fell over my wound.

The hallway buzzed with energy. I wondered whether it had always been this lively or whether the recent integration of Holy Cross's all-male student body had anything to do with it. I tried to muster enough courage to approach a group of students that looked my age but chickened out as soon as they looked at me. Pathetic. Instead, I walked over to a lonely-looking tween whose nose was buried in a book.

"Excuse me, can you tell me where the administration office is?"

Her face lit up as she pointed me in the right direction and then looked a little sad when I thanked her and walked away.

Please don't let that be me in a week. I looked at my watch and hustled through the office door.

"Miss Le Moyne, I presume?" asked the white-haired secretary.

"Yes. Hi, I'm Adele—"

"Here's your schedule," she said. "They're waiting for you inside."

I pocketed the small card and paused in front of the closed oak doors; she motioned for me to go in. As I exhaled loudly the doorknob began to turn on its own. I frantically grabbed it and looked back at the secretary to make sure she hadn't seen. Luckily, she was hunched over, cleaning her glasses on her blouse.

***

Principal Campbell's office had a classic feel: navy-blue brocade drapes, walls of books, and lots of framed accolades. A middle-aged woman in a red skirt-suit and reading glasses, with a tight ashy-blond French twist, stood behind a large, wooden desk that had been waxed until shiny. She looked more like a high-powered CEO than a high school principal. Across from her sat two other students: a boy with skin as dark as cocoa beans and a closely shaved head, who looked even less excited to be there than I was, and a short, buxom blonde with perfectly coiled curls, who appeared to have been born ready for this meeting.

I felt a moment of relief when I realized I wasn't going to be alone in this endeavor. Maybe we can band together as newcomers? I might actually be able to survive this place in a group of three.

All six eyes followed me. I snuck a glance at the clock on the wall. I was still two minutes early, which, at the Academy, apparently meant I was late.

"Please take a seat, Miss Le Moyne."

I moved quickly to the empty chair next to the boy. He was rubbing his head as if he expected something more to be there. It must have been a new cut.

Three fat files sat on Principal Campbell's desk. I stared at the manila folder with my name on it. What about my life could possibly fill a two-inch-thick file?

"Dixie Hunter, Tyrelle Laurent, and Adele Le Moyne, you are the three displaced students who were carefully selected to join the junior class of Sacred Heart Preparatory Academy. Holy Cross in your case, Tyrelle." There was something about her voice that said we were not actually welcome—like someone had forced her to invite us to her party. Only two of us picked up on it: Tyrelle adjusted his tie and slouched to one side in his chair. I was pretty sure I could see a tattoo under the edge of his cuff. This was someone I could get along with. Dixie, on the other hand, smiled cheek to cheek as if she had just won the lottery.

"I hope you understand what a stupendous opportunity you've been given, as we almost never accept transfer students." Principal Campbell slowly took her seat. "You have a lot of catching up to do. Sacred Heart Preparatory Academy holds the utmost standards when it comes to both academic performance and grooming virtuous young adults, and it is imperative that this standard is upheld both on campus and off."

Do not fidget, I repeated in my head as she continued talking up the school. But I was completely uncomfortable, both physically and mentally. I had to concentrate just to sit up straight.

She only glanced my way once, rarely taking her eyes off Tyrelle. Her gaze kept dropping to his chest. I couldn't see that he was doing anything offensive, but I was too scared to move my head to get a better look. She said something in Latin, and I made sure to nod as affirmation of my attention.

"Adele, we're thrilled to have you transfer from Notre-Dame International in Paris," she said in French.

I blinked, trying to keep my eyes from rolling at the pretentious mention of Notre-Dame, where I had attended school for only two months.

"We'll expect great things from such a worldly artist."

Worldly artist? These people really do choose to believe whatever they want. "Um, I'll try not to disappoint."

Dixie and Tyrelle both looked at me, equally unimpressed. I responded with an awkward smile.

"I think I speak for the three of us," Dixie said in a heavy Texas twang, "when I say we're honored to be here and can't wait to get involved with the Academy." She sounded like a perfectly rehearsed debutante. There was a long pause as she looked over to me and Tyrelle, as if it was our turn to suck up. Neither of us obliged.

Principal Campbell handed us each a thick handbook of the school's policies and values, which we had to sign and date before she cut us loose into the sea of teenage piranhas.

***

"Well, I'm the token kid from the hood," Tyrelle said as we stood outside the office, examining our schedules. "How'd the two of you end up here?"

Now I could see the outline of a large gold chain underneath Tyrelle's white button-down shirt and tie. I patted the hidden gris-gris against my chest.

"I have no idea how I ended up here," I said. "I don't even recognize my own life right now."

"There are no tokens at the Academy." Dixie enlightened us. "We all paid our way in, fair and square."

"What's fair and square about paying your way into something?" I asked.

She looked at me as if I had spoken Chinese and then turned back to Tyrelle. "My family just moved here from Dallas. My father owns the third-largest construction company in the South, and he says this place is a gold mine. Lots of things around here need reconstructing."

I was speechless. I certainly hadn't bought Dixie's sickly sweet southern-girl act in the principal's office, but I couldn't understand how anyone could be so crass about the city's fragile post-Storm condition. Sadly, I suspected it wouldn't be my last encounter with carpetbaggers moving to New Orleans to exploit the current state of affairs.

Dixie got no response from either of us, so she turned her back with a swirl of her skirt and flounced down the hall.

"And then there were two," I said, watching her walk away with the misguided confidence of a teen beauty queen. I turned to Tyrelle. "What class do you have next?"

He looked me up and down for a few seconds, as if trying to figure out whether or not to trust me. I guess I didn't meet his criteria, because he plugged in his earbuds and walked off, shaking his head in disgust.

Zero for two. If I couldn't even befriend the two other transfer students, how would I ever win over the natives? The bell rang loudly.

Lockers slammed. The hands of couples tore apart, and cliques scattered like flocks of startled birds. I double-checked my schedule while the crowd thinned. I didn't even need to look up from the card to know heads were turning as they passed me. Like Principal Campbell had said, transfer students were rare. Like unicorns.

Great. My first period was AP English, the senior-level class they had stuck me in since, coming from art school, I was ahead in humanities credits—as if I needed one more reason to stick out.

I looked up, searching for a room number just as I passed two extrapreppy guys, one of whose hand lingered for a second too long on the small of the other's back before he took off to class. The remaining guy, a tanned blond, must have caught my smile, because he stopped directly in front of me.

"Are you lost?"

There was something about his polished tone that demanded my silence about what I had just witnessed. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that silently begged the question, Are you cool? Can we trust each other?

I smiled, letting him know that his secret was safe with me. "Yeah, actually, could you tell me where to find classroom 317?"

He extended his hand, and I surrendered my schedule.

"It's in the east wing." He gestured for me to follow.

I adjusted the bag on my shoulder and prepared to hustle, but he seemed utterly unconcerned about getting to class on time. We strolled.

"If you just explain where it is, I'm sure I can find it." I peered at my schedule like it was a hostage between his fingers.

"Thurston." He held out his other hand. "Thurston Gregory Van der Veer III. And you are?"

"Enchanté. Adele Le Moyne, NOSA transfer student," I answered with a firm shake.

Maybe it was his perfect diction or the way his perfectly straight back made him appear as if he'd had equestrian training since he was a toddler. Whatever it was, I felt like a total mismatch walking beside him. The instant rubbernecking by the few students left in the hall reinforced my feelings.

"So, when did they merge Holy Cross?" I asked, following him up two flights of stairs. Holy Cross was even closer to the levee breaches than NOSA.

"About two weeks ago."

"Sorry about your school."

"Luckily only a fraction of each school's student body has returned, so this campus is not too overcrowded, yet. But I'm ready to get out of here." He examined the rest of my schedule as we sauntered down the third-floor hall. "You're a junior? In AP English? Only the best at the Academy, eh?"

Do I sense sarcasm?

Before I could answer, we arrived in front of the door marked 317.

"Well, thanks for showing—"

He opened the door, holding it for me. "I apologize for our tardiness, Sister Cecilia. I found Miss Le Moyne wandering the hallways, lost."

"Wait, you're—?"

"How chivalrous of you, Thurston," the teacher replied with annoyance. "Oh yes, Le Moyne, the junior."

I felt my face turn red as all the ears in the class perked up at the mention of the lowly word.

"You can take the empty seat right here in the front row."

"Who's she?" someone whispered.

"I don't know, but I'm texting Annabelle."

"Me too."

Annabelle?

I sank into my seat, already regretting walking into the room with Thurston Gregory Van der Veer III. The one advantage to sitting in the front row was that if I didn't turn my head, I couldn't see the gossip, glares, or other snide gestures. Adversely, my back felt exposed for anyone to stab, which escalated my paranoia.

"Before his metamorphosis," said Sister Cecilia, "Gregor is alienated from his job, his family, his humanity, and even his own body. This is evident when he barely notices his transformation . . ."

How could someone barely notice he had turned into a giant bug?

As hard as I tried to pay attention to the lecture on guilt complexes, I couldn't stop thinking about Niccolò. I could still feel the imprints where his hands had held me. And I couldn't get the image of his bloody mouth out of my head. More importantly, was I being followed before I bumped into him? Who was the woman?

***

In precal, I chose a seat in the middle of the classroom, not wanting to insult the bubbly teacher by going straight to the back row. But arriving early didn't make my assimilation any easier. I doodled, trying not to watch as five girls entered the classroom together.

A gorgeous girl with thick auburn hair and creamy skin walked a beat ahead of the rest. I sensed all eyes following her from the doorway across the room. Dixie Hunter followed directly behind her, talking excitedly. Jealousy plagued me—two and a half hours into the day, and Dixie was already hobnobbing with the inner circle? Had this chick arrived with some kind of secret popularity manual? Désirée trailed behind them, texting, uninterested in whatever Dixie was babbling about.

I sat up straight. Will Désirée actually acknowledge me in front of her friends?

I wouldn't have to wait long to find out—the redhead walked straight to my desk. The group followed suit, crowding over me like a pack of hyenas. Dixie and I were the only ones who seemed surprised by their pit stop.

None of them said a word. They just looked me up and down. Désirée rolled her eyes in boredom and took her seat.

I stood up to feel less like their prey.

"Nice bag," Dixie said in a sweet voice wrapped in bitchy sarcasm.

All eyes went to the black canvas tote hanging on the back of my seat. The girls standing around me were all carrying leather ranging from Vuitton to Hermès. I instantly regretted not unpacking the Chanel bag ma grand-mère had bought me in Paris.

No expensive bag is going to make you one of these princesses, Adele.

The redhead touched the canvas, examining the bag's only marking—a barely noticeable, hand-painted fleur-de-lis.

"It's from this season's Mode à Paris," she said, shooting Dixie a look of disapproval, and for the second time that day I saw confusion sweep Dixie's face.

"That's Fashion Week in Paris," Désirée translated.

"How'd you come across one?" asked the redhead.

"I went to the Comme des Garçons show," I replied as if it weren't a big deal, even though it had been the most exciting twenty minutes of my life. I didn't feel the need to tell her I'd actually PA'd the show or that the stage manager had swiped the swag bag for me as a thank-you for the abuse I suffered during the twenty-two straight hours of manual labor I'd contributed free of charge.

The redhead looked impressed, but the moment was fleeting; I saw her beginning to mull over the question of whether or not I was a threat.

"She just got back from Paris a couple of weeks ago," Désirée said, throwing me a bone.

"Bienvenue au Sacré Cœur," said the redhead, "Je m'appelle Annabelle Lee Drake." She smiled and went to her seat before I had a chance to respond.

Dixie was in a total state of shock at how quickly the tables had turned. I couldn't help myself and gave her a tiny don't mess with me look, which Désirée caught—she cracked a smile, which felt like a major feat, considering the only other time I'd seen her smile was around Gabe. As they all walked to their seats, Désirée looked straight at me with an expression that said, Don't say I didn't warn you about Annabelle Lee.

"That's the transfer who was hanging all over Thurston this morning."

I turned around to find a girl pointing at me. Hanging all over Thurston? We barely exchanged fifty words! My pen shot off my desk, clearing the students to my right before hitting Désirée's Vuitton.

Giggles erupted from behind me.

"Sorry!" I said as a pimple-faced boy handed it back to me. Thank God it was capped.

I turned to apologize to Désirée, ready for her wrath, but she looked at me with squinty inquisition rather than her usual stink eye.

I slunk down in my seat.