The New Girl's Guide to Wolves

Maya

I scrawl the words across the top of the next blank page in my notebook just as the car jolts to a stop, tires crunching over gravel. My pen jerks, leaving a long blue slash across the margin. Welcome to Day One at Yet Another School.

“Here we are!” Mom says with too much cheer, throwing the gearshift into park. “Stone Mountain High. Don’t you just love the name? It sounds solid. Stable.”

I stare out the window. It could be any high school I’ve been dropped into before. Unremarkable, uninspired, and already too loud. Brick walls, metal doors, teenagers clumped in loose packs across the lawn. Laughter and music spill from open car windows. Someone skateboards across the lot. The place is a jungle, and I’m about to walk into the lion’s den with a “new girl” badge taped to my forehead.

Mom doesn’t notice my silence. She’s too busy smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt and twisting to face me. “Remember what we talked about. This is a fresh start. No one here knows you. You can be whoever you want.”

“Great,” I mutter, tucking my notebook into my bag and pulling the strap over my shoulder. “Can I be homeschooled?”

She ignores that. “You’ve got this, Maya. I believe in you.”

I nod, hand already on the door handle. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment. It’s just that I’ve heard it before. And last time, it didn’t stop the rumor mill from eating me alive.

Outside, cool mountain air brushes my face, crisp and clean with the faint scent of pine. The parking lot smells like damp concrete, distant wildfire smoke, and cheap body spray. I step out, adjust my glasses, and take a deep breath.

Mom circles to the front of the car. “Smile at people. Make eye contact. Maybe join a club?”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, which is my polite way of saying, not in a million years.

“Okay. Go, go!” She waves me off like I’m boarding a shuttle to space.

I walk away, backpack heavy and sweat already beading at my collarbone. Deep breath. Shoulders back. Eyes down. Rule #1, remember?

Blend in. Invisible is safe.

Until it’s not.

The second I step into the main building, the hallway swallows me whole.

Lockers bang open and shut with metallic clanks that echo off the stone walls. A chorus of voices, some laughing, some shouting, some murmuring into phones. It all blends into a chaotic buzz that makes my teeth ache. Someone breezes by in a cloud of floral perfume, and then I’m knocked sideways by a group of football guys high-fiving over something unintelligible.

I sidestep, gripping the strap of my backpack tighter. My fingers are already clammy.

The ceiling lights hum above me, too bright and too white, and I blink hard behind my glasses. Just find your locker. Blend in. Do not make eye contact.

My notebook slips a little under my arm, and I readjust, pressing it against my side like a life vest. Rule #1… Rule #1… Rule #1…

Wham.

A shoulder slams into mine. My body spins, the strap of my bag jerks, and before I can catch it…

Crash. Books and pens scatter across the tile like spilled secrets.

I crouch fast, heart pounding, cheeks already flushing. “Sorry! I didn’t see…”

My voice dies in my throat.

A pair of boots steps into my peripheral vision. Scuffed, black. The kind someone wears not for fashion, but because they’ve kicked something with them. My gaze lifts to jeans, dark, fitted, and then up to a hand clenched at his side.

Oh my word, his face.

My breath catches. He’s tall. Broader than he has any right to be at his age. Dark hair cropped close. Eyes, icy blue and staring straight into mine like they’re trying to decode me. Or maybe burn through me. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

The hallway noise dulls around us like someone hit the mute button.

Something flickers in his expression. Not anger. Not confusion. Something... more. And then, as fast as it came, he shuts it down. His jaw tightens.

He turns without a word and walks away.

Just like that.

I’m still kneeling, surrounded by notebooks and highlighters and a smashed granola bar. The hallway snaps back into sound, and people are watching. Whispering. Snickering.

I collect my stuff as quickly as I can, face burning, eyes stinging behind my glasses.

So much for invisible.

Whispers trail behind me, clinging to my clothes, curling around my ears, refusing to let go as I walk down the hall. I can feel their eyes on my back, hear the giggles that die off just as I pass. I don’t need to look to know some of them are already tagging me: awkward, weird, nobody. First impressions are forever in high school.

My first class is at the end of the hall. Room 112. The door creaks when I push it open, and twenty heads turn like I just triggered a fire alarm.

I freeze for a second too long.

A middle-aged woman in a cactus-print blouse looks up from her clipboard. “You must be Maya Ortiz. We’ve been expecting you.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“You can introduce yourself, then grab an empty seat.”

Of course. The public humiliation tour continues.

“I’m Maya,” I say. “I just moved here from… a few towns south.” Not a lie, but vague enough to shut down questions. “Nice to meet you.”

A few murmurs. One guy coughs. I slip into an empty seat near the window, keeping my eyes down. Except I can feel someone staring.

I risk a glance.

It’s him.

He’s at the back of the room, leaned back in his chair like he owns the air around him. Three other students flank him. Two guys and a girl, all wearing that same too-still expression I noticed earlier. Like predators waiting to pounce. No one talks to them. No one sits near them.

His eyes haven’t left me. The weight of his gaze pins me in place, like I’ve been marked and cataloged, and part of me, traitorous and trembling, doesn’t hate it.

My stomach flips again.

I drop my gaze and pretend to be fascinated by the syllabus. But my skin tingles like it’s trying to warn me about something I haven’t figured out yet.

I tell myself it’s just nerves. Just first-day paranoia.

But I don’t believe it.

I keep my head down for the rest of class, eyes glued to my notebook even though I’m not writing. I can feel his stare like a heat lamp on the back of my neck. Every time I shift in my seat, I swear his eyes track me. I tell myself I’m imagining it. That he probably stares at everyone like that. That it’s just a weird coincidence.

But it doesn’t feel like coincidence.

By second period, I’ve rewritten Rule #1 three times just to give my hands something to do. The bell rings, and I rush out before anyone can stop me, weaving through the crowded halls like I’m in a maze I haven’t memorized yet. All I want is to get through the day without attracting more attention. To survive it.

That fantasy dissolves the second I walk into biology.

He’s there.

Sitting in the back again, this time alone, flipping a pen between his fingers with casual disinterest. His gaze lifts the moment I step inside. No expression. No blink. Just that same unnerving focus.

The only available seat?

Right next to him.

Of course it is.

I slide into the chair, carefully keeping a desk’s worth of space between us. I don’t say anything. Neither does he. But I can feel the air hum between us, like the room’s off-kilter.

Mr. Hendricks launches into a lecture about cellular respiration, and I cling to the distraction like a lifeline. I take meticulous notes, underline key terms, try to pretend I’m invisible again.

Halfway through, Bolton leans over, his voice a low murmur. “You always write that fast?”

I stiffen.

“I like science,” I mutter without looking at him.

“Figures,” he says, not unkindly. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

He shrugs. “Like you’d rather talk to a microscope than a person.”

I bristle, ready to fire back, but when I glance over, there’s something almost amused in his eyes. Not mocking. Just… curious.

Before I can decide whether to be offended or flattered, the bell rings.

I dart out fast, only to nearly collide with him again in the hallway. And then again in gym.

He’s everywhere.

By the time I’m jogging half-hearted laps around the basketball court, I’m convinced I’m losing it. He stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching. Always watching.

Like he knows something I don’t, and the thought sends a chill racing down my spine.

Like everyone here knows something I don’t.

And I hate it.

Because it makes me feel like I’ve already lost a game I didn’t realize I was playing.

By lunch, my nerves are shot. All I want is thirty silent minutes and a sandwich I can eat without being gawked at.

The cafeteria is full-blown chaos. Plastic trays slam down, soda cans hiss open, and the air smells like greasy pizza and overcooked broccoli. I hover at the entrance with my tray clutched like a shield, scanning for an open seat.

And then I see him.

Bolton Sharpe. Back corner table. Same three friends from first period flanking him like some kind of royal guard. They’re not talking. Just watching.

Watching me.

His eyes lock with mine, and something in my chest just… stalls.

I glance away, fast, and speed-walk to the far side of the cafeteria. An empty table with one girl wearing earbuds and a pile of fantasy novels. Close enough.

I slide into the seat, rip open my milk carton, and yank my notebook from my bag.

Rule #2: Don’t attract attention.

I underline it twice with shaking hands.

When I glance up, he’s still watching.

My pulse thuds in my ears. I pretend not to see him and take a bite of my sandwich, chewing even though I can’t taste a thing.

Then, like a scene in slow motion, he moves.

His chair scrapes against the floor, loud enough to turn heads. He rises, slow and deliberate, and starts walking.

Toward me.

I grip my tray tighter.

“Too late,” I whisper.