New Girl Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee
New Girl
Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee
First day of senior year.
First day at a new school.
In a new town, in a new state.
Since I started kindergarten, my mom’s photographed me on the front porch holding a blackboard with my grade written in white chalk. She texts the picture to Grandma and Bernie, and Dad if he’s overseas. The older I’ve become, the sillier I’ve found the tradition, but I never complain because it takes two seconds and I used to genuinely like first days.
Today she brings out the blackboard: Senior Year!
I get up from the table, dumping my plate of toast crusts in the sink. Dad left for post a few minutes ago, looking sharp in ACUs and tactical boots. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head and said, “Good luck, Millie,” before slipping out the door. Now he’s on his way to Fort Campbell, but I’d like to think that if he were here, he’d defend me against Mom’s dumb photo.
She holds out the board. “Quick picture?”
She went with the chambray blazer and black skirt, with her hair styled in soft waves. She took a leave of absence after Beck’s death to be present for his family, as well as for Dad and me. I don’t envy her the impossible task of comforting the comfortless, but as I suffered through the second half of junior year grief stricken and lonely, I often wished I could’ve taken a leave of absence too.
Now, she’s been hired as our neighborhood elementary school’s literacy specialist. It’s the perfect job for her and I don’t want to ruin her morning, but I’m not about to smile for a picture.
I stand, smoothing the floral minidress I plucked thoughtlessly from my closet after showering, and grab my backpack. “I’m running late.”
She lowers the board, then follows me out the door. My car, a recently purchased, pre-owned Jetta, sits next to hers, a recently purchased, brand-new Volvo. Dad’s content to cruise around in the Explorer we’ve had since I was thirteen.
I’m halfway to freedom when Mom calls, “Lovey, please?”
I don’t stop.
I don’t tell her to have a good day.
I wave without turning back, then shut myself into the Jetta.
It’s not until I’m backing down the driveway that I allow myself a glance toward the porch. She’s still there, wilted. The blackboard hangs at her side. She brushes a tear from her cheek and watches me go.
I’m a monster , I tell Beck.
He doesn’t disagree.
***
Driving to East River High School, I’m a ball of nerves. It’ll be the sixth school I’ve attended in my seventeen years, which isn’t a terribly high number for a military kid, but I haven’t started at a new school alone since sixth grade, when I was a transplant to Colorado Springs. It’s terrifying to walk into an alien building, to face hundreds of unfamiliar faces, to internalize new policies, and to convince a slew of unknown teachers of my merit. But in North Carolina, I had Beck. In Washington, I had Beck. In Virginia, I had Beck.
In Tennessee, today…I have no one.
The parking lot is chaos. Cars idle or cruise haphazardly. Groups of people weave in and out of traffic, making their way to campus like flocks of oblivious pigeons. Spots are assigned—mine is 132—though the paint marking them is faded. It takes me forever to find the right section. I sigh, relieved. It’s a small victory.
Cranking the Jetta’s wheel, I make a sharp left into 132—just as a raven-haired girl toting a messenger bag steps into my waiting spot.
A half second becomes an eternity as my car careens toward her, allowing me to observe her hair, which fans out as she whirls toward the sound of approaching doom. Her mouth, an oval of shock. Her hands, thrown up like they might protect her from the impact of a three-thousand-pound vehicle.
I think, with terrifying clarity, I’m going to kill her.
And then another thought, another voice, deep and desperate: Fuck, Amelia—brake!
I shriek, slamming my foot down on the pedal.
The Jetta lurches to a stop.
The girl’s chest heaves as she stands in front of its hood. Its bumper can’t be more than an inch from her knees.
Through the windshield, our eyes meet.
I shift into park, then fumble with my seat belt. Nearly face-planting in my hurry to bail out, I manage to get my feet beneath me as I say, “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
She lowers her hands, gold bangles tinkling. Tossing her hair, she squares up, jaw clenched, brows narrowed. She’s beautiful in that airbrushed, flawlessly contoured way that feels unattainable to mascara-and-lip-balm types, like me.
She looks pissed.
But then, like snow sliding from a pitched roof, her imposing demeanor falls away. She takes a hurried couple of steps in my direction. “I’m good. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, totally.” I pull in a breath, hoping to slow my racing pulse. My brain fog nearly resulted in calamity, and I’m not sure how to wrap my head around the miracle that, somehow, this girl was spared my ineptitude. “God. Seriously, I’m so sorry.”
She laughs— laughs . “No worries. Happens all the time.”
I blink. “Uh—does it?”
“This parking lot’s madness on a good day. You’re not the first to nearly run a person down, and you won’t be the last.”
I’m not sure if she’s bullshitting to make me feel better, or if I should wear a crash helmet while walking to and from my car.
“You’re just starting at ERHS?” she guesses.
“Is it that obvious?”
She laughs again, a sunny sound. “What year are you?”
“Senior.”
“Oof—a senior-year transfer? Shitty.”
“It’s not so bad,” I say with a shrug, resisting the urge to pull out my phone and call up my schedule, then beg her to show me the way to my first class: AP Government.
“I’m a senior too.” She gestures at the Jetta, its engine quietly humming, its butt hanging out of space 132. “How about you finish parking—I’ll stay clear—then we can compare schedules before the bell.”
I want to drop to my knees and thank this gracious girl.
I’ll try , I told Dad last night. I’ll try to make a friend.
“Yeah,” I say, “that would be amazing, thank you. I’m Lia.”
“Paloma. And don’t sweat it. I was the new girl last year. We’ve gotta stick together.”