The 'New' Girl
RORY
The school still smells the same.
Bleach. Floor wax. Burnt coffee from the front office. Cheap perfume drifting out of the girls’ bathroom every time someone swings the door open.
My stomach twists before I even make it past the front entrance.
Three years should be enough time for a place to forget me.
I am really, really hoping it has. But Its not long enough for me to forget the place.
Students pour around me in red, black, and white, laughing too loud, shoving shoulders, calling names across the lobby like they own the air. Someone’s backpack clips my arm. Someone else says sorry without looking back.
I grip my schedule so tightly the paper bends under my fingers.
Move.
Just move.
I force one foot in front of the other and step deeper into Red Valley High.
I used to know how to disappear in crowds like this.
Head down. Hair forward. Books hugged close. Never stop near the trophy case because the glass gives people a chance to see you from another angle.
But my hair is not hanging in my face anymore. It falls in loose red waves down my back because my mom said I looked beautiful this morning, and I was stupid enough to believe her long enough to leave the house like this.
A guy in a black varsity jacket glances at me.
Then looks again.
My face gets hot so fast I want to slap both hands over my cheeks.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I duck my chin and cut toward the office before he can decide whether or not to say something.
The secretary sits behind the front desk, typing with one hand and holding a coffee mug in the other. She does not look up when I stop in front of her.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m new,” I say.
My voice comes out too thin.
I clear my throat.
“Returning, actually. I’m supposed to get my locker assignment.”
That makes her look up.
Mrs. Danner.
Of course it’s Mrs. Danner.
She is older than she was when I left. Shorter hair. Red glasses chain. Same tiny frown between her brows.
She was here in sixth grade when someone dumped chocolate milk down the front of my hoodie and everyone swore I did it to myself for attention. She handed me a tissue and told me to “try not to let them get a reaction.”
Like I was the problem. Her eyes move over my face. Please don’t know me. Please don’t say my name.
“Name?” she asks.
I swallow.
“Rory Calloway.”
The name feels strange in my mouth. Not Aurora. Not Roar-y, like they used to chant when they wanted me mad enough to cry.
Rory.
Short. Sharp. New. Mrs. Danner types it into the computer. For one horrible second, she pauses. My heart stops with her fingers. Then the printer whirs.
“Here you are,” she says, handing me a schedule and locker slip. “Senior schedule. Since we’re halfway through the year, some teachers may still need to get you college trip forms. We have two community college tours next month and the local university visit in March.”
“Okay.”
“Make sure your parents sign the permission slips.”
“My mom,” I say automatically.
Her smile shifts. Not much, but enough.
I hate that.
I hate that one tiny correction can expose something I didn’t mean to show.
“Of course,” she says.
I take the papers.
“Welcome back.”
Back.
The word lands like a hand between my shoulder blades.
“Thanks.”
The morning bell rings before I can breathe properly. The lobby explodes. People move around me, loud and careless, and I step into the current because standing still feels worse. My locker is on the west hall. I know that without looking at the map.
I know this building. I know which hallway smells like rain when the ceiling leaks. I know which stairwell teachers ignore. I know the second-floor girls’ bathroom has the best lock on the last stall.
I know where I was laughed at. I know where I was cornered. I know where Beckett Cross once smiled at me when no one was looking. My chest tightens.
No.
Do not think about him. Not today. Especially not today. By second period, three people have asked if I’m new. Two boys offer directions I do not need. A girl in English leans over and says she loves my freckles like that is something I am supposed to know how to accept. I smile and say thank you because I have no idea what else to do.
By the time third period ends, I am exhausted from being seen. I find my locker after pretending to check the map twice, just in case anyone is watching. The combination works on the second try. The metal door sticks, then pops open with a squeal. I place two books on the top shelf. Close the door. Turn around. And almost walk directly into Kinsley Hart.
“Oh my gosh, hey.”
My whole body goes cold.
Kinsley stands in front of me with a bright white smile and a cherry-red bow tied around her ponytail. Her cheer jacket is half-zipped. Her lashes look professionally done. Her lip gloss shines under the hallway lights.
Beside her stands Mara Voss.
Mara, who once photoshopped pig ears onto my profile picture and sent it to half our grade.
They are both smiling at me.
They have no idea who I am.
None.
Kinsley looks me up and down with friendly eyes that are not friendly at all. They are measuring. Sorting. Deciding where I fit.
“You’re new, right?” she asks. “I’m Kinsley.”
Mara beams. “And I’m Mara. We can totally help if you’re lost.”
My fingers tighten around my books.
I remember Kinsley mouthing freak show during my seventh-grade presentation. I remember Mara fake-tripping into me at a pep rally and sending nacho cheese down the front of my shirt. I remember them laughing while I scrubbed orange stains out of my hair in the bathroom sink.
I wonder what their faces would do if I said Aurora. I almost want to see it. Instead, I smile. Small. Careful.
“Rory,” I say.
Kinsley’s eyes light up. “Cute name.”
Mara tilts her head. “Are you from around here?”
My mouth goes dry. I lived three streets away from you. You knew exactly who I was. You made sure everyone else did too.
“Not really,” I say.
It is not exactly a lie. Not anymore. Kinsley links her arm through Mara’s. “Well, you picked a chaotic time to transfer. Everyone’s freaking out over college tours and applications and who’s leaving and who’s staying.”
“And prom,” Mara says.
“And prom,” Kinsley agrees, like obviously that matters more than the future. “You should sit with us at lunch.”
No.
Every part of me says no. But my mouth smiles because that is what my face learned how to do when it is cornered.
“That’s sweet,” I say. “But I have to check in with guidance.”
“Oh.” Kinsley’s smile flickers. “Okay. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
I slip past them before they can ask anything else. Around the corner, I stop beside the water fountain and press my palm to the wall. Breathe. They didn’t know me. They looked me right in the face and didn’t know me.
I should feel powerful. I should feel like one of those girls in movies who comes back with better hair, better clothes, and a new name, ready to make everyone regret what they did.
Instead, I feel twelve. I feel fourteen. I feel like the girl who used to pray she could unzip her skin and step out as someone prettier.
Quieter.
Easier to love.
“Rory?”
I turn so fast my books slide in my arms.
A girl with dark braids and round glasses stands a few feet away, holding a stack of textbooks against her chest. For half a second, my brain refuses to place her. Then she smiles. Not fake. Not curious. Real.
“Oh my gosh,” she whispers. “It is you.”
My throat tightens.
“Lena?”
Her books nearly hit the floor when she lunges forward and hugs me. I go stiff because I am not ready. Then I am hugging her back so hard my fingers dig into her sweater.
For three seconds, the hallway disappears. Kinsley disappears. Mara disappears. Every ugly thing this place did to me goes quiet.
Lena smells like vanilla lotion and pencil shavings. Exactly the same.
“You’re here,” she says, pulling back. Her eyes are shiny. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know if your number was the same.”
“It is.”
“Oh.”
The answer sounds stupid out loud. Lena sees it. She has always seen too much.
“You look amazing,” she says.
I look down.
“Don’t do that.” She demands.
“Do what?”
“Act like I’m lying.”
The warning bell rings before I can fall apart in the hallway.
Lena snatches my schedule out of my hand like no time has passed at all. “You have AP Gov and Politics after lunch. With me. And basically half the senior class because Coach Miller retired and they shoved everyone into Albright’s class.” A knot forms in my stomach.
“Who else is in it?” I ask.
Lena glances at me.
I know before she says the name.
“Beckett Cross.”
My lungs forget how to work.
Of course. Of course he is still here. Of course I cannot come back to Red Valley High without finding him sitting somewhere in the middle of my life.
Beckett Cross. The boy every girl wanted by sixth grade. The boy with the dark hair and trouble smile. The boy who sat with me behind the gym during a thunderstorm once because I was too scared to cross the field with lightning splitting the sky. The boy who gave me half his hoodie because I was shaking.
The boy who laughed two days later when Tanner Wells asked if he had adopted the class charity case. He laughed. That was the part I never got over. Because when we were alone, he could be kind. And when people watched, he became just like them.
Lena’s voice softens. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
The lie comes too fast.
“I’m fine.”
She doesn't believe me. I don't blame her.
Lunch is worse than the morning. Not because anyone does anything. Because no one does. No one dumps a drink on me. No one barks when I walk by. No one whispers my old nickname loud enough for the teachers to pretend they do not hear.
People just look. Curious and interested looks. Boys letting their eyes hang too long. Girls leaning toward each other after I pass.
I carry my tray like it weighs fifty pounds and follow Lena to a table near the windows. Two girls sit with her. One of them stares at me for a full ten seconds before her mouth drops open.
“Aurora?”
My heart jumps.
Then her eyes fill with tears and she stands up. Not cruel. Not laughing. Just happy. That nearly hurts worse.
I hug her because I do not know how not to. Her name is Tessa. I remember her passing me notes in eighth-grade math. I remember losing her number when Mom changed mine after the divorce. I remember meaning to call and never doing it because after a while, shame gets heavy enough to feel like a locked door.
For a little while, I breathe.
Lena talks about college applications. Tessa complains about the local university visit. Everyone is pretending they are excited to leave while secretly terrified they will not.
I listen. I nod. I almost feel normal. Then the cafeteria changes. It is tiny at first. A dip in the noise. A laugh cutting off. Lena’s eyes shift over my shoulder. My fork stops halfway to my mouth.
“What?” I ask, even though I already know.
Lena’s mouth tightens. “Don’t look yet.”
So naturally, I look.
Beckett Cross stands near the football table with one hand wrapped around a carton of chocolate milk, grinning at something the guy beside him says.
He is taller. That is my first stupid thought. Taller. Broader. Worse.
The careless prettiness he had in middle school has sharpened into something unfair. Dark hair. Dark brows. A black-and-red letterman jacket hanging open over a white shirt. A mouth made for trouble.
Then his eyes lift. And land on me. The cafeteria noise thins until there is only the sound of blood rushing in my ears.
No.
No, no, no.
My body betrays me immediately. Heat in my cheeks. Tightness in my chest. That stupid, humiliating kick beneath my ribs that feels too much like before.
His smile slows but it doesn't disappear. It changes. Like he has found something interesting. Like he has chosen a target.
I force myself to look down at my tray, but it is too late. I can feel him watching me now.
“Rory,” Lena says under her breath.
“What?”
“He’s coming over.”
My stomach drops.
“No, he’s not.”
“He is.”
I stare at my fries like they might open a portal and swallow me.
“Maybe he’s going somewhere else.”
“He is walking directly here.”
Of course he is. Because Beckett Cross has never once in his life wondered if he is wanted before showing up. The footsteps stop beside our table. A shadow falls across my tray.
“Hey.”
His voice is lower now. That's unfair too. I look up slowly, using the last second I have to build a face that does not remember him.
Beckett smiles. Big, easy and devastating. The kind of smile that used to make girls forget their locker combinations.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” he says.
Lena goes very still beside me. I fold my hands in my lap so he cannot see my fingers curl.
“No,” I say. “I guess you haven’t.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Not recognition. Not yet. But something close enough to scare me.
He leans one hand on the back of the empty chair beside me. “I’m Beckett.”
I almost laugh. As if I don’t know. As if half my childhood didn’t revolve around trying not to look at him too much.
“Rory,” I say.
His brows pull together slightly. The nickname means nothing to him. Good.
“Pretty name.”
My face warms and I hate myself for it. I hate him more because he notices. His smile deepens like he thinks he understands the blush. He does not.
“Since you’re new,” he says, “I could show you around. Red Valley gets confusing if nobody tells you which teachers hate seniors and which parking lot floods when it rains.”
There it is. The charm. The easy invitation. The boy who was kind when no one watched. The boy who laughed when everyone did.
For one wild second, I want to be cruel.
I want to tilt my head and ask if he still needs an audience to decide what kind of person he is. I want to ask if he remembers the hoodie. The thunderstorm. The way he looked away from me the next morning like kindness was something dirty.
I want to say my full name and watch it hit him. But the old part of me grabs my throat. The part that survived by getting smaller. So I give him the only thing I can.
A polite smile.
“That’s nice of you,” I say. “But I’m good.”
His smile falters. Only a little. Enough. I stand, picking up my tray even though half my lunch is untouched.
Lena looks up at me, worried.
“I need to go by guidance,” I lie.
Beckett straightens and steps back to let me pass. For a second, I'm close enough to smell him. Clean soap. Wintergreen gum. Something warm beneath it that drags up rain and old bleachers and his hoodie around my shoulders.
I hate him. I hate him so much. I walk away before my face can betray me. I make it all the way to the cafeteria doors before laughter erupts behind me from the football table.
Not his. At least, I don't think it's his.
But it doesn't matter. My hands are shaking again. This time, I do not stop. I walk until the hallway swallows me.
BECK
I know I’m about to do something stupid.
I do it anyway.
The new girl sits near the windows with Lena Pierce and two other girls I half-remember from middle school. Sunlight cuts across her red hair, lighting it like a warning sign. She keeps looking down at her tray, like she can feel everyone looking and hates every second of it.
That should be a sign for me to leave her alone. But I can’t.
Because Jace Maddox is leaning back beside me at the football table with that lazy captain’s grin, and the whole table is watching.
“Ten bucks says you don’t get the new girl to look at you twice,” Jace says.
I tear my eyes away from the girl.
“Ten bucks?” I say. “What are we, twelve?”
The table laughs.
Jace’s grin widens. “Fine. Bigger.”
That is the problem with Jace. Everything is a challenge. And that is the problem with me.
“Name it,” I say.
Tanner whistles low. “Here we go.”
Jace tips his chin toward the girl by the windows. “First one who gets proof she wants him wins.”
Something in my stomach shifts.
“What counts as proof?” Tanner asks, because of course Tanner asks.
Jace shrugs. “A kiss. A date. Her showing up somewhere she shouldn’t because one of us asked.”
The guys laugh. I should shut it down. I should say it’s stupid. I should remind Jace theat he has a girlfriend. I should say she looks like she just wants to survive lunch, not become the next thing we pass around for entertainment. Instead, I lean back and smile. The table is watching. Jace is waiting. Because I have spent too many years making sure I’m never the guy everyone laughs at.
“Pink slips,” I say.
The table erupts. Even Jace blinks. “To the Camaro?”
I nod toward the parking lot. “Unless you’re scared to put up the truck.”
His jaw ticks. Hooked.
“Done.”
The second I say it, I feel the mistake settle somewhere under my ribs. But I stand anyway. Backing out now would be worse. At least, thats what I tell myself as I cross the cafeteria. The girl doesn’t look up until I reach the table. When she does, the smile I have ready almost slips.
Her eyes hit me wrong. Not because they are pretty, though they are. They are familiar in a way that makes no sense. She looks at me like she already knows what I am.Like she’s known for years.
“Hey,” I say.
Her hands fold in her lap. Tight. Controlled.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
“No,” she says. “I guess you haven’t.”
That bothers me. I don’t know why. I lean one hand on the back of the empty chair. “I’m Beckett.”
“Rory.”
Rory.
The name doesn’t fit the feeling in my chest. It should. It is just a name. But something about her voice catches on a memory I can’t grab fast enough.
“Pretty name,” I say.
She blushes. For half a second, satisfaction hits me. Then something about the blush changes in my mind. It’s not soft. It’s not pleased. It looks like she’s mad at her own skin for reacting. I keep smiling anyway.
“Since you’re new, I could show you around. Red Valley gets confusing if nobody tells you which teachers hate seniors and which parking lot floods when it rains.”
Her face stays polite. Too polite.
“That’s nice of you,” she says. “But I’m good.”
The table goes quiet. And I feel it. The rejection lands clean in front of everyone. And the strangest thing is, I don’t even feel embarrassed at first. I guess I’m disappointed.
She stands, lifting her tray. For a second, she is close enough that I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo. Something warm and floral. Something that doesn’t belong to any of my memories, but the memory is there. It presses against the inside of my skull as she passes me and I watch her go.
Every step says she is trying not to run. Behind me, Tanner laughs. Jace says something under his breath but I barely hear it. Because the girl is gone, and the question she leaves behind sits like a hook in my chest. Where do I know you from?
By fifth period, it is driving me insane. I drop into my seat in AP Gov and Politics and tell myself to stop thinking about her. That works for maybe six seconds.
Jace slides into the desk beside me, still grinning. “Well, that was ugly.”
“Shut up.” I bite.
“Ooh. Sensitive.”
“I said shut up.”
Jace lifts both hands, but he is still smiling. The warning bell rings. Students rush in.
I keep my eyes on the door even though I’ve told myself not to. Then she walks in. Rory. She pauses just inside the classroom, scanning for an empty seat like she is calculating the safest place to exist. There is one two rows ahead of me. Of course there is. She moves toward it. I sit up before I can stop myself.
Jace leans close. “Look at that. God loves you.”
I ignores him.
Mrs. Albright stands behind her desk with a stack of papers in one hand and her reading glasses pushed on top of her head.
“Settle down,” she says. “Before we get started, we have a returning student joining us today.”
Returning. My gaze snaps back to the girl. She freezes. Not enough for anyone else to notice but it was enough for me.
Mrs. Albright smiles. “Some of you may remember her from middle school, though it’s been a few years. Let’s welcome back Aurora Calloway.”
The room drops out from under me. Aurora. Not Rory. Aurora Calloway. No. It hits me all at once. The red hair. The freckles. The way she looked at me in the cafeteria. The careful way she held herself like one wrong laugh could split her open. Aurora Calloway.
The girl with too-big eyes in seventh-grade science. The girl who drew flowers in the margins of her notes. The girl everyone called Roar after she yelled at Tanner for stealing her backpack.
The girl who liked me. The girl everyone knew liked me. The girl I was nice to when we were alone because I liked the way she looked at me like I was better than I am. The girl I laughed at when other people were watching because I was too much of a coward not to.
I stop breathing.
Aurora does not look back, Not once. She takes the empty seat two rows ahead, smooth and quiet, like the floor might crack open if she moves too fast. Jace leans back in his chair. “Wait. That’s Calloway?”
I can’t answer. My stomach is somewhere near the floor. Because the new girl from lunch…. The bet…. The girl I crossed the cafeteria to win…Is not new.
She is Aurora Calloway.
And I’ve just done it again.
