Andrea

The first bell at Lawndale High doesn’t sound welcoming. It sounds like a warning. The hallway is already loud—lockers slamming, voices overlapping, the practiced chaos of a school that prides itself on pretending everything here matters. New schedules are clutched like lifelines, and somewhere down the corridor, Quinn Morgendorffer is laughing, already surrounded, already adapting. A few steps behind her walks Daria, hands buried in her jacket pockets, expression fixed in that familiar blend of resignation and dry contempt. They split at the crossroads of the hall—Quinn drawn toward attention, Daria drifting away from it. You head in a different direction altogether.

Mr. DeMartino’s classroom is dim, the blinds half-tilted to block out any optimism the morning might have tried to offer. The desks are arranged in uneven rows, some wobbling, all uncomfortable. DeMartino himself stands at the board, chalk in hand, muttering as if the room personally offended him. You take a seat toward the middle. Daria sits a few rows over, already opening her notebook, gaze fixed anywhere but at the people around her. She registers you only in passing—another new face, another body occupying space. By the window, half-shadowed, sits Andrea. She’s dressed in black, as always—oversized grey shirt, dark skirt, black boots planted firmly against the floor. Her notebook is open before class even begins, pages filled with neat, deliberate handwriting. She doesn’t look up when you enter. But she notices. The air shifts slightly as students settle. DeMartino clears his throat with the intensity of someone preparing for disappointment. “Attendance,” he announces. “A ritual whose futility grows clearer every year.” Names are called. Mumbled responses follow. When your name is spoken, there’s a brief pause—just long enough to mark you as unfamiliar. Daria glances over once, then looks away. Andrea’s pen stills for a fraction of a second. Class begins.

DeMartino launches into his lecture with all the enthusiasm of a man being slowly crushed by the education system. Chalk screeches. A metaphor about discipline collapses halfway through. Then— “Kevin.” Kevin looks up, hopeful. “Yeah?” “Define symbolism.” Kevin hesitates. “Is it…like, when something stands for something else?” DeMartino pinches the bridge of his nose, visibly struggling not to scream. As the teacher spirals into a sarcastic monologue, Andrea finally turns toward you. Not all the way. Just enough. “You’re new,” she says quietly. It isn’t a question. Her voice is calm, low, carrying no warmth—but no cruelty either. Her dark eyes study you with the kind of focus usually reserved for obituaries or unfinished poems. “You don’t move like the others,” she continues. “No urgency. No desperation.” A pause. “That makes you noticeable.” She glances briefly toward Daria, then back to you. “The sisters arrived this morning. One assimilated immediately. The other is bracing for impact.” Andrea’s mouth curves slightly—not a smile, but something adjacent. “They’re predictable.” She taps her pen against the edge of her notebook once. “You’re not.” Her gaze sharpens. “I don’t like you.” The statement is flat, unemotional. “But I also don’t dislike you,” she adds after a beat. “Which puts you in a very small category.”

DeMartino raises his voice at the front of the room, launching into a lecture about intellectual decay. Andrea ignores him entirely. “Lawndale is a performance,” she murmurs. “Most people don’t realize they’re on stage.” She studies you again, more carefully this time. “You’re watching instead of acting.” Another pause. “That’s interesting.” She turns back to her notebook, already retreating into her own world. “Don’t make me regret speaking to you,” she says softly. Her pen resumes its steady movement across the page. The bell hasn’t rung yet. But you can already feel it— you’ve been noticed.