Your suitcase wheels drag on the gravel as you cross the main courtyard. The sign above the entrance reads the school’s name in carved stone. One corner of the sign is chipped. Moss grows inside the letters.
You check the envelope they gave you at the gate: dorm assignment, class schedule, a campus map folded three times. A yellow highlighter circles your name. You missed orientation by a day.
Inside the main hall, the receptionist hands you a room key, a lanyard, and a packet labeled “Welcome Materials.” She points toward the stairwell without standing up.
“Top floor, west wing. Room 312. Someone should be around.”
The stairwell smells like old carpet and bleach. Your suitcase thumps once on every third step. Halfway up, a student passes you, says something too fast to catch, and keeps walking.
Room 312 has two beds. One is already made. The other has a stack of folded sheets and a pillow sealed in plastic. A pair of shoes sits under the opposite bed. The closet is half full. The window is cracked open.
You set your bag down but don’t unpack.
The bell rings while you’re still holding the map. You head toward your first class: World Literature, Room B-17. You pass students in uniform, some talking, some walking alone. A few glance at you as you go by. No one speaks.
The classroom is full when you arrive. The teacher checks your name against a clipboard, nods, and points you to the only open seat—front row, far left.
“New transfer,” she says to the class.
No one responds.
You open the book to the page number written on the board. Someone behind you taps a pen rhythmically on their desk for almost the entire period. It stops exactly one minute before the bell.
Your second class is science. You sit at a lab station with a chipped corner. The student beside you has already claimed the better stool. The teacher hands you a syllabus but doesn’t introduce you.
Lunch is loud. The dining hall is crowded. You walk through the maze of tables, tray in hand, until you find an empty seat near the windows. Two students sit two chairs down. They don’t acknowledge you. One of them is eating chips directly from a backpack pocket.
Afternoon classes go by in silence. Teachers gesture to empty seats when you enter. Other students talk when you’re not near them. The girl in history class drops her pen and doesn’t pick it up.
After the final bell, you return to your dorm room. The other bed is still made. The shoes are still under it. A half-empty bottle of shampoo is visible through the bathroom door.
A note is taped to your desk: “Try not to slam the door. I study late.” It’s unsigned.
Out the window, the campus fades into a dull gray. The bell tower chimes once. Dinner will start soon. Someone laughs down the hallway.
