|photo by Jose Oh Mw from Unsplash|

The doorman gives me the signal: a nod that means I have the revolving deathtrap all to myself. It's embarrassing that he's noticed my aversion—I've only been in New York five days. I return the nod, take a breath and charge through the door. My next breath is Fifth Avenue morning air. You'd think it might be a little fresher this early in the day but no. It's still toxic. Still makes me feel like I'm polluting my lungs.

I drop my head back in true tourist form to look at the balcony of my aunt's penthouse—as if she'd be up there waving frantically and screaming for me to wait. I guess it's pointless to be mad at her. I'm the idiot who let myself hope she might drag her ass out of bed before 10:00 a.m.

A shrill whistle calls my attention to a large man in a dark suit. His beefy shoulder knocks into my head as he rush-waddles past me to get to a slowing taxi, but he doesn't acknowledge the violation. I cross my arms, making myself even smaller, and merge into the pedestrian traffic, walking fast to keep pace with the natives as I watch for my sign. Five blocks of this and I get to turn onto a quieter street.

I've walked by Zachary Prep before. Mom and I were here on one of our yearly mother-daughter expeditions. We took a detour off Fifth and she stopped under a forest green flag and said, "This is it." I barely had a chance to read the name on the building before she hooked her arm through mine and tugged me the entire two blocks to the Metropolitan. She had the strangest scowl on her face, not fear exactly but something close to it. I kept looking back to see if someone was chasing us.

Now I know she was running from her past—from memories she won't share because she wants me to form my own opinion.

I stop at the intersection—even though the crossing signal is telling me to walk. The tannish stone building on the other side of the street is only six stories but right now, it's looming like a skyscraper. I dig my phone out of my brand new shoulder bag, a gift from Emily. What my aunt lacks in nurturing warmth she makes up for with extravagance and impeccable taste.

Megan answers on the fourth ring. "Maybe Helen is right about me," I tell her.

"What time is it?" she asks through a yawn.

"Seven. I'm standing in front of my new school. I'm supposed to meet the principal and pick up my class schedule, but I can't seem to move my feet."

"Where's your aunt?"

"At the penthouse, still in bed. Aunt Emily doesn't do mornings."

"Oh."

There's a beat of silence and then, noises that generate a visual image of my best friend since sixth grade, yawning, stretching and scratching. Megan is even less of a morning person than I am. On sleepovers, I used to amuse myself by waking her up, just to watch her pull herself out of that funny little fog of sleep.

"Mother of shit," I whisper. "What am I doing?"

"What do you mean?" she asks, slightly more alert.

"I'm nostalgic as crap right now because I miss you." Plus my entire future is there: Virginia Tech, NASA, Glenn. "Remind me again why I agreed to come here?"

"Zachary offers college level math."

Somehow that doesn't sound as appealing as it did when I read it on their website two weeks ago.

"Helen is not right obviously because you got on the plane," Megan says. "It's a nine month detour. You'll come home in June and everything will go right back to the way it was."

Before the freaking tornado ruined my life.

"Send me a picture," she says. "And tell me about the uniform—you never got back to me after the shopping trip."

I smile. Nobody knows how to neutralize my freak-outs like Megan Montes.

"The plaid is decent, mostly green and blue but there are touches of red and yellow. Emily took me to this ginormous school uniform warehouse. We bought a couple of skirts and jumpers off the rack and then she ordered a bolt of the fabric to have delivered to her friend, who's this amazing designer. I'll have couture by my second semester."

"God, you're so lucky. Where's my picture?"

"Hold on." I open my camera and aim. The school building is ancient—and incredibly sturdy. A tornado wouldn't make a dent in this mother.

"I don't feel lucky," I say, after I press send.

"How long are the skirts?" Megan asks, in a tone that says she's choosing to ignore my negativity.

"Emily had them altered—just short of mid thigh. We bought blouses from Bergdorf. And accessories..."

"What do you mean accessories? Send me a picture."

"No! God. No selfies. I'm already conspicuous enough."

Megan huffs a protest, fully awake now. "Then I'll need details."

I smile and summon my inner talk show host. "Today, I'm wearing a V-neck jumper, with a cap-sleeved blouse and a wisp of a silk scarf tied at the neck. Long gold chain, sheer purple tights—"

"What?"

"Kidding. Sort of. Emily insisted on buying me a pair and I tried them on this morning. They really do work with the plaid but I chickened out. So, sheer white knee socks, black leather flats and a gorgeous matching shoulder bag."

"Sounds adorable."

"Thanks."

"Take a breath, hot stuff," she says, with more empathy than snark—and my eyes sting.

"You have no idea how much I wish you were here."

"I am. Send me another picture—a close up of the front door."

The traffic light changes. I breath in and step off the curb. The crosswalk signal ticks like a bomb, urging me to up my pace.

"I see what you did there," I say when I get to the other side.

"Tell me what you smell," Megan says, ignoring that too.

"You don't want to know."

"Tell me."

"Exhaust fumes and garbage," I say.

"Okay, got it. New York smells like my ex-boyfriend's car."

"Exactly." I stop under the flag, the way Mom did that day. "The school crest is yellow and green. There's a circle in the center of the shield, divided diagonally. On one side is the ever-symbolic book and feather. The other has an abacus. Yay for math!"

"Yay," she says, zero enthusiasm.

"I can't figure out what the mascot is. Some kind of winged animal."

"A bird?"

"No. Something that shouldn't have wings."

"Why am I not getting visuals?"

"Oops." I text a picture of the flag. Then climb the stone steps to a huge pair of paneled wood doors and send another picture before I grasp the metal handle. I smell lemon oil and again, I think of my mother.

The lever moves under my thumb and the latch clicks but it won't open.

"The stupid door is stuck," I tell Megan.

"Put some ass in it, girl."

I lean into a push and the door gives, propelling me into the entrance hall in a sideways stumbling run. My phone hits the marble floor with a clatter. I scoop it up. The screen is blank. No Megan, no response to my frantic poking and prodding. Dead.

I drop my busted phone in my purse, straighten my jumper and try to find my dignity. And then, I notice my surroundings.

Screw dignity. I allow my mouth to gape.

Zachary is green. Not in an ecological way, the actual color. Every shade imaginable. Everywhere.

I take a few steps, drawn forward by an enormous mural: a grassy hill speckled with reddish-orange flowers against a sky so blue it makes my chest ache. An ornate wrought iron gate guards the canvas—or maybe it's a part of the painting itself, I can't tell. All I know is that it stands between me and something I want to be a part of—something that looks like home.

"Hey."

I turn my head toward the deep voice. My eyes stay on the mural. The school's shield is forged right into the center of the gate, complete with the menacing winged animal I still can't identify.

"You're the new girl," he says.

"Is that real?" I ask. "The gate, I mean. Is it iron?"

"It's part of the painting."

The boy is about my age, dressed in a school uniform—Zachary's apparently because his plaid tie matches my skirt. He holds my eyes briefly then shifts his to the painting. "It fools a lot of people," he says. "Do you like it?"

Yes and no. "It's amazingly realistic."

"Thank you." There's genuine pride, maybe even ownership in his tone.

"Did you paint it?"

He nods, but then a playful smile pushes dimples—deeper than Glenn's—into his cheeks. "No," he admits. "It was painted by a professional set designer."

I take a closer look at the huge emerald columns flanking the mural. They're not real—they don't even touch the ceiling. Velvet curtains, in the deepest green, hang on either side of them and in between each of the windows on the opposite wall. The entire room is like a theatre, an elaborate set of some Broadway show. There's no way Mom wouldn't have mentioned this. It must be—

"Welcome to Oscar Zachary Prep School," the boy says, extending his hand. "I'm Conner Barlow, your official one-man welcoming committee. Most people call me Crow."

I take his hand, covertly scanning for some hint at the origin of the nickname, but there's nothing. His hair blonde and his nose isn't remotely beak-like.

"It's short for scarecrow," he volunteers, with a shy smile. Then he shoves both hands in his pockets. Something about this action makes me think of Glenn.

Okay. So right now, maybe everything makes me think of Glenn.

"My idiot older brother started it," Conner says. "He used to call me shit-for-brains but my mom overheard. She grabbed him by the ear and led him out of the cafeteria in front of the entire school. Best day of my life."

It's his easy manner. He's like a younger, less filled-out version of Glenn. Except for his eyes, which are greenish blue. "What's your name?" he asks.

"Shouldn't my official welcoming committee already know my name?"

His cheeks go a little red and he points to his head. "Straw-for-brains."

"Thea Allen," I say.

"The front door sticks, Thea Allen."

Crap. "Did you see me come in?"

He holds up his phone and grins. "I got it on video."

"You're not going to—" Oh god, he totally could. And it will go viral before I even get a chance to make a friend here. "Please, tell me you're joking?"

"I am," he says, suddenly serious. "I didn't even see you. I heard you swear and I know the door, so..."

"I cursed?"

He nods. "This is a good room for bad words. Mother of shit," he yells, to demonstrate. The sound reverberates and heat climbs my neck. Conner's smile returns. "It was better with the Southern accent."

Shit. I forgot I have an accent here. "Do you know the time?" I ask, more self-conscious than ever. "I have a meeting with Principal Ambrose at 7:15."

"It's Ambroise and she prefers headmistress." He looks at his phone and grimaces—which probably means I'm late. Then he points to a sunlit corridor. "I'll walk you to the office."

Conner's stride is long. I can't keep up. "You haven't met her yet," he says, looking back at me. "But you're dressed as a student."

"Um, yeah," I say. Maybe he is a little slow.

We stop in front of a door labeled, Administration, and Conner gets this satisfied look on his face, like he's just solved a mystery.

"Don't make direct eye contact," he says. "Just tell her what she wants to hear."

"What—why?"

"Don't worry about it. You'll be fine." He opens the door for me. "Good luck, Thea."