Spotted on the lawn, Governor King's son, Griffin, joins Nouveau for his senior year. We're all wondering the same thing. Why did he transfer from Kingston Prep? An insider source tells me his move has expulsion written all over it.

yours truly,
Queen B.

***

For as long as I could physically remember, the commencement of the school year had always been deemed a second hell, a dreaded day where students wove in and out of their new classes still experiencing the after effects of a summer haze. Accustomed to nocturnal hours, students were physically present but mentally vacant by the time seventh period rolled around. The narrow spectrum of their brain capacity at that point consisted solely of counting down the minutes until the dismissal bell blared through the speakers, signaling a very much anticipated end to the repetitive cycle alternatively called academia.

I'd been awake for thirty minutes, the digital clock on my nightstand marking a quarter to eight. The official start of senior year was only fifteen minutes away, but it had truly begun weeks ago when college portals opened online. Applying to colleges had basically become all about completing an online profile for a dating website. It was all about how well you could sell yourself without reeking of desperation.

Some students were already starting to make their way to class, the muffled sound of brand new shoes striking the carpet seeping through the crack under my door. Snippets of hushed conversations about the new psychology teacher flirted with my ears. Habitually, my eyes drifted to the pair of ballet flats I'd harbored since the middle of sophomore year. The black leather had stretched out significantly, creasing where my toes began to mold into the soles of the shoes.

My morning thus far was nothing like the opening scenes in the movies. I'd woken up only to slip into the same uniform for the fourth year in a row: a pleated skirt with our school's gray blazer over a white blouse of my choice. The only soundtrack ushering in the background as I pulled a comb through the knotted strands of my hair was the soft purrs of engines spurring to life and cutting of beyond the window.

Through the tinted glass, I watched a range of cars from cherished family vans to luxurious sports cars frame the circular drive in the front of the school. Families lined their vehicles up behind the golden iron letters that spelled out The Nouveau Academy for the Arts and Sciences. Our motto, Victoria, Veritas Et Virtus, was inscribed underneath into the stone, a daily reminder that each of us was expected to leave Nouveau with nothing less than victory, truth, and virtue.

New and returning students lugged their belongings across the freshly mowed lawn, down the corridor, and into the hallways where rooms were separated by grade level. The rooms at Nouveau were comparable to a four star hotel suites, each equipped with a personal walk-in closet and bathroom. As a boarding school, most of the dorms remained occupied for the entire span of the school year, but some students commuted to and from every morning. They tended to live on the outskirts of Brighton, a town associated with utmost wealth in New York.

Three crisp and distinct knocks on my door pulled me away from the windowsill, my feet tripping over the trail of unpacked bags on the carpet footing the room. I pulled the door back to find the sole person responsible for all of my reckless decisions resting her shoulder against the doorframe. Her uniform replicated mine. The only difference was that she managed to look a thousand times better wearing plaid. The polished Mary Janes was a nice touch, her knee high socks drawing attention to her runway made legs.

Becca Matthews was the only person at Nouveau who managed to achieve the highest score on the hardest exam of the year with alcohol poisoning, the result of one too many shots and an unforgettable game of Never Have I Ever. With flawlessly silky hair, a nearly perfect transcript, and the captain of the varsity soccer team around her arm, Becca was the one person everyone aspired to be. Anyone who said otherwise was lying.

"I really like what you've decided to do with your room this year, Kennedy," Becca said with a smile as her round brown eyes scaled my bare walls, sarcasm hidden overtly in the roots of her tone.

With the exception of a poster taped above my bed, some polaroid pictures pinned onto the bulletin board, and a lonely row of Christmas lights dangling from the top edge of my bookshelf, the rest of my belongings were still sealed away in cardboard boxes. Things usually remained that way until the week before our annual parent-teacher conferences.

"We've been here for almost a week. Why haven't you unpacked anything?" Becca pried, the space between her eyebrows knotting in confusion. "Your room looks like you're ending a school year, not starting one."

"Because I've decided I'm finally going to run away," I joked lightly, shrugging the straps of my bag over my shoulder.

By the end of the day, I was going to have to carry a year's worth of workbooks and textbooks back to my room. I groaned just at the thought of the excess weight and the sore arms I would wake up to tomorrow.

"You're going to run away from school?"

"From all of my problems," I clarified.

"School is the reason for all of your problems."

Before I joined Becca in the hallway, I glanced at my reflection one last time in the vanity mirror adjacent to the closet doors. A pair of sleep deprived brown eyes coated in a thin layer of mascara stared back at me. Sometimes I barely recognized my own reflection underneath the all the changes over the course of past couple of years. For one, I had grown a significant amount the summer before sophomore year. Reminiscent memories of my once and still partially awkward body flooded my mind as I subconsciously raked my fingers through through my blonde hair that gradually darkened with the rotation of the seasons.

"Wait, what does your schedule look like this year?" Becca asked once I joined her at the end of the hall, her hands eagerly reaching for the light blue schedule nudged in between all my summer assignments.

I relinquished my tight grasp on my folder before she tore the helpless schedule in half.

From the corner of my eye, I watched Becca skim the page, her manicured fingers gliding along the edge of the sheet. The color of her nail polish matched her lipstick, a soft but confident hue of pink. Heads turned our way as we strolled down the designated senior wing, passing the senior mural where all 105 of our names were painted onto the white brick in light blue and sealed with gold glitter, Nouveau's signature colors.

Our names would remain on the wall for another ten months until the custodians were instructed to repaint the brick with a fresh layer. All it took was a power washer, some gallons of paint, and a handful of glitter to erase our entire existence at Nouveau.

"We have calculus together with Mrs. Choi this year," Becca told me, effortlessly weaving her way through the football team's shenanigans in the middle of the hallway after morning practice. "Since when did you sign up for music theory? I thought you were taking ceramics this year with Alden."

"I did sign up for ceramics last year," I sighed, "I don't know what happened."

"I still think it's preposterous that they require us to take an art or music class in order to graduate anyways." Knowing Becca, she could go on about this for days. It was one of the reasons why she pummeled her opponents in cross-examination for debate.

"You might not be making pottery and listening to reggae, but I heard Sykes is a pretty fun teacher. It won't be the end of the world if you have to listen to him talk about music. But you have to admit that he's nice to look at, Kennedy. Have you seen his eyes?"

He was the Ezra Fitz of Nouveau.

"I'm still going to see if I can get it changed. If you see Alden, tell him I still have his sweatshirt from last week. See you guys at lunch," I reminded Becca before heading straight for the counselor's office.

I walked in to find an endlessly long line of students snaked around the perimeter of the small office. Frustrated students squeezed behind occupied couches and decorative ferns. It looked like more than a third of the school was requesting a schedule change.

Feet anxiously tapped against the carpet along to the seconds passing by on the analog plastered on the wall to the right of the front desk. Judging by the discouraging length of the line, more than half of us were going to be late to class on the first day. When the five minute bell sounded, most of the students scurried toward the door, valuing their attendance above all else.

As I waited in line, my eyes fell down momentarily to my left hand. The bracelets dangling from my arm jangled as I shook my wrist twice.

Before I knew it, I was the next person in line. By the time I reached the front desk, the bell signaling the start of the school day had already rung. Senior year had officially started.

"Good morning," I greeted cheerily with a bright smile, simultaneously pulling out my schedule from my bag.

"Morning," the receptionist mumbled back grumpily. "What can I do for you today?"

"Is there any chance that this is a mistake?" I requested as politely as I knew how, pointing my finger directly at the first class on the schedule that read:

1. Music Theory and Fundamentals K. Sykes M142

"Is there any way I could switch out of this class before the end of the week?"

The blonde receptionist picked up my schedule on the counter, lifted her cherry red glasses from the bridge of her nose, and squinted at the list of courses. The corners of her chapped lips drooped as she rubbed the temples of her forehead, shaking her head. It wasn't very hard to tell from her changing facial expressions that she was aggravated by the simple question. She handed the schedule back to me over the counter with a forced smile on her lips.

"Ms. Marx, you are expected to stay in your classes for the entire year unless otherwise noted," the receptionist spoke like she was reciting lines from a script she was forced to memorize over the summer. Her outrageously sweet voice barely matched the glazed, uninterested expression in her eyes. "This was outlined in the first page in the course catalog when you signed an agreement the time of course scheduling last year."

"But I signed up for ceramics," I tried to tell her, practically pleading for any alternative available. "Are there any other art classes available during first period? I'd be willing to take anything el—"

She was haste to interrupt, cutting me off in the middle of my sentence. As her eyes bored into mine, I was confident that there was not a single bone with compassion in her petite body. "Ms. Marx, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. Unless you demonstrate that you are physically or mentally incapable of remaining in music theory, you will have to complete the course if you want to graduate with the rest of your classmates."

I left the counselor's office feeling utterly defeated. How could I say anything else when walking across the stage at graduation was being bargained? In the end, I slipped through Mr. Sykes' open door ten minutes after the bell.

"Glad you finally decided to join us for class this morning, Kennedy," Mr. Sykes called me out in front of the entire class as I settled into one of the two remaining seats in the back of the room.

"I was at the counselor's off—"

"Save your excuses for the end of class."

My face flushed red as a cloud of whispers hovered over me in the hostile atmosphere. Some of the students shot me glances as Mr. Sykes sent a colossal packet of syllabi around the room, a useless compilation of paper that ended up in the trashcan before the first week of school was even finished. No one glanced at the packet after the first day, choosing to resort to word of mouth. My classmates released dramatic groans and exasperated sighs at the syllabus with far too many pages and font too small to read with the naked eye. Someone made a joke about needing a microscope.

As we reviewed the multiple categories under the class' grade distribution, the doorknob revolved. All heads turned to the person standing in the doorway. Even Mr. Sykes stopped his presentation to address the student no one in the room recognized.

Eyes focused on the boy with golden hair the shade of an endless wheat field right before sunset. His navy tie was loosely wrapped around his neck, one of his hands neatly tucked into the pocket of his khakis. He carried his backpack with only one shoulder. There was an easy grin etched on his face, the kind branded with utmost confidence.

"Let's all welcome Griffin King to the class and the school."