By the time my parents' coach pulls up in front of Melliford Academy, I've decided the best place for the pad of letter-paper my father gave me to keep in touch is in the closest garbage can I can find. My father himself is pontificating about something to do with reactionary utopias, exemplary rational states, and the contradictions of capitalism. He's been going for an hour, and I've long since tuned out. Both to stop my brain from leaking out my ears, and because the last time I actually tried to listen, I discovered a brand-new level of failing to care. Which is amazing, really. I thought I reached the bottom of that barrel years ago.

The contradictions of capitalism linked somehow to my keeping in touch with my parents, but I lost that thread when we passed free trade. My mother interjects periodically with some version of, "We will be so worried about your wellbeing if we don't hear from you weekly!" It's nice to know I'm still worth the lie. Or maybe that's just my boarding-school tuition talking. Both my parents have made it clear they're paying an arm and a spleen for me to come here, and I wouldn't be surprised if their concern lay less with assurance of my personal welfare and more with ensuring a good return on investment. I'm not sure how my father feels about return on investment. I'm not sure my sanity would survive the answer if I asked.

We haven't moved forward in a pair of minutes, and nobody's yet opened the carriage door. I check out the window. There's traffic: we're third in line in the narrow horseshoe driveway, and the holdup seems to be confrontational. I'd be happy to jump out here—maybe jump in a lake while I'm at it—but there's nothing but an ornamental garden where I'd land, and I don't think my parents will take kindly to me freestyling through shrubbery. Tempting as the thought might be. The mental image elicits a brief fantasy of wild chases through cultivated flora, losing my pursuers in the peonies as the flowers' attendant ants swarm their clothing. Red ants in my father's underwear would be Christmas come early.

Our horses paw the cobblestones. Someone at the Academy's front door has shepherded a griping magnate back into his carriage, which trundles off and unblocks the constipated driveway. There are two more carriages behind us now. I can't be the only one going grey for want of freedom and a breath of fresh air. In another five minutes, I leap from the carriage step to Melliford Academy's front walk.

"Desdemona, dear," says my mother. She doesn't need to say more to express her disappointment with my conduct, and I really don't care. I accept my suitcase from our driver before a Melliford Academy attendant can take it for me, and stride for the front doors like I'm thrilled for school. Mostly I just want to hear my mother's posh heels struggling over the flagstones and up the front steps.

A different attendant greets me at the door. "Desdemona Winchester," I say with my prettiest smile, and am waved through into the school's front lobby. I should count the number of times I pass through this place. I'm aiming for less than thirty, but that's only if my plan for this semester goes through. I'd love to kiss this place goodbye by the end of September.

My father's puffing struggles up the stairs behind me. My brief respite is over: my parents take up their positions on either side of me like I'm a prisoner on death row, pinned between a frock coat with enough structural integrity to stand on its own, and an excessive quantity of ruffles. My father swells with self-important awe at the building around us. "What a splendid exemplification of mid 16th century gothic architecture," he bloviates. "Truly the pinnacle of its era. I can't say I've ever been too fond of the rib vault's use in second-story ceilings, but it's a rare building that wears it well, and let me tell you, this is one of them. Would love to shake the hand of its architect. Truly magnificent."

The ceiling here is, as far as I'm concerned, tall, arched, and supported on pillars that look vaguely like bundles of human femurs lashed together with string. My father launches into a disquisition on lancet windows. I, desperate for distraction, turn my attention anywhere else.

"Exie," says a voice ahead of me. "Exie Quinnell, yes. Is it possible to change it in the school records?"

My attention is drawn from the lobby's garnet-red carpet and out-of-place crucifix mounted on the wall. There's a small lectern at the far end, stationed for us to check in at before we move through the final set of doors into the school. I'm second in line. The girl ahead of me is dressed in smart dress pants with a pretty blouse and a vest on top. Unconventional, but I like it. She's dark as ebony, with tightly coiled black hair fluffed to a stylish cloud about her head. Exie, she just said. I'm terrible with names, but I want to remember this one for some strange reason.

"Yes," she continues regretfully to the attendant at the lectern. "I'm not the legal age to change it yet. But it's the name I prefer to use."

"I'll make a note," says the attendant with a warm smile. "It's not a problem at all. I presume you'll want to switch to the girls' dorm, too, then?"

"If that's allowed."

"Of course it is. And your uniform?"

"Ah, no, I'll keep the pants if that's okay. But thank you for the accommodation."

She glances over her shoulder as she says it, and my mind blanks. Getting kicked out by the end of October suddenly doesn't sound too bad, ether, now that I think about it. Or maybe I can stay until Christmas before I burn this place to the ground. I'm flexible.

Exie's dark eyes dart over the doorway behind me, then land on mine. I'm pretty sure the tender age of seventeen is too young to start developing cardiac arrhythmia, or maybe I just kicked off this morning with too much tea. My first stop after the garbage can will definitely be a washroom. I kick myself for not soliciting this glance earlier, too, before my parents came to hover around me like a pair of overdressed vultures. My father has managed, somehow, to segue into the financial disposition of the Catholic church, and I would skin two knuckles to rewind this clock and go for any better first impression.

Exie's gaze lingers just a moment too long. I feel judged. Then she turns back to the attendant at the lectern, who's giving her directions through the school to her room. Exie smiles so charmingly, I am convinced its whole purpose is to make me feel jealous. "Thank you. I am excited to be studying here; I've scarcely slept all week. When will classes begin?"

My fantasies of hot cocoa and blankets before a crackling winter fire pop like soap bubbles. That's not a violent enough analogy. It's the kind of feeling you get when you blow up a paper bag, twist it shut, and then stomp on it, generating a sound not unlike pistol shot. Exie Cute-As-Hell Quinnell is a studious student high achiever. My dreams of a suave introduction spiral down the toilet with such alacrity, you can practically hear the flush.

The trill of a woman's voice pierces through the doorway behind me. She's called a boy's name, but it's Exie who flinches. She thanks the attendant for whatever answer she just got about classes, then pastes a polite smile on her face and turns to whoever just came in the doorway. A man and woman in even more elaborate costumes than my parents glide in. The familial resemblance is immediate. These are Exie's folks, and the part of my brain that finds such things entertaining stops to ponder how many more ruffles Exie's mother could wear before she'd fail to sink in a hurricane. She sweeps forward and smothers her daughter in kisses. "Darling, we thought we'd lost you. Is this the check-in? Do we need to check you in?"

"I did it already, ma. You looked like you were enjoying the garden, so I wanted to leave you to tour it a little longer."

I blink. Exie switched her voice in a heartbeat: an octave down, with far less affected intonation than she had a moment ago. She's hiding from her parents, then. The attendant sees it. I eye them, silently daring them to say anything as they look back and forth between the three. They hold their silence. I check on my own parents next, but my father is still going strong, and my mother is trying to steer him politely away from a public discussion of politics. Exie's secret is safe.

Exie's mother, of course, remains blissfully unaware of whatever she's missing. "So responsible!" she gushes over her uncomfortable daughter. "I see you'll have a wonderful year. Do you need us for anything? To see you to your rooms, or tour the school? Or shall we come meet the headmaster?" At this, she turns to the attendant, practically glowing with pride. "We have such high opinions of this place. A truly formative institution."

Something flickers in Exie's expression. It's gone before I can confirm it—so fast, it may well have been a trick of my imagination. The inane compliments continue to fly back and forth over her head as she picks up her suitcase and sizes up the lobby's various exits as though planning her escape. I relate.

It's the arrival of other students and their families that eventually forces the situation to an end. Exie vanishes into the school's inner sanctum on her way to her room, and my father fairly lunges forward to check me in before I can reach the lectern. Oh, to be trusted with so much as saying my own name. The attendant rattles off standard information about schedules, classes, and rooming. I try to catch a glimpse of the sheet they're reading off of. If my roommate is Exie, this is going to be an interesting semester.

The sheet is visible, but it's written in a swoopy, curly hand that instantly defies my ability to read anything, let alone upside down. I pull a bitter face. Nobody's watching anyway. I could steal the silver pen off the lectern while I'm at it; a bit of a fuss could embarrass my parents before they even leave. Wins all around. That's a petty violation, though, and I want maximum pizzazz for my demerits. I sigh and gather my suitcase as I'm ushered off to keep the check-in line moving. Maybe I can burn the letter-paper. Start a fire somewhere it won't hurt anyone, and incinerate a couple Catholic artifacts before I get the boot. At least it'll be cathartic.

The room I'm shown to has two beds, tucked in opposite corners with little desks and shelves arranged in disconcerting symmetry. Both halves are empty. No Exie, then. I try to deign to care who my roommate will be, and am spared the mental exercise by a knock on the door.

"Come in," I call. Time to find out.