Chapter 3 Welcome to AP Literature (and Drama)
When she reaches the classroom door, she hears the muffled hum of a classroom in progress. This is it. The threshold. She hesitates for only a second before reaching for the handle, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She pushes the door open.
The room goes silent as she enters. Mrs Miller, the teacher, pauses mid-sentence. A few eyes lift towards her, pausing mid-conversation, mid-laugh. Melissa freezes. For a moment, she forgets how to move her legs.
Then the tall woman with platinum-blonde hair says, "You must be Melissa Montenegro."
Melissa nods quickly, her voice small. "Y-yes, Ma'am. Sorry, I'm late. I was at the office."
The teacher's smile widened, though her gaze lingered a second too long, searching Melissa's face for the "personal reasons" the Principal had warned her about. "That's quite all right. I'm Jade Miller. Welcome to AP English Literature. Class, Melissa is the new transfer student. Please help her feel comfortable. Would you like to tell us about yourself before you take a seat?"
You have got to be kidding.
Melissa's stomach knots. She hates this part. Her hands fidget with the hem of her shirt, and she bites her lower lip nervously.
"Melissa, we are waiting."
Heat floods Melissa's cheeks. She scans the room; her heart drops. The brunette from the hallway—the one talking about Jeremy—is sitting right there, staring at her with narrowed eyes.
She quickly introduces herself, her voice shaking. "I'm Melissa... from California... I like classic books and-"
She's cut by a voice from the back of the room, calling out, "Yo, Jeremy—pass that."
A few soft giggles ripple through the room. Not kindly. She catches them but pretends she doesn't. She's used to it.
"Jack!" Mrs Miller snaps, her eyes flashing toward the boy who had called out. "This is a classroom, not a social club. If you find it so difficult to remain silent while a new student is introducing herself, perhaps you'd like to join Mr Bennett in the office for the remainder of the period?"
The boy, Jack, slumps further into his seat, muttering a quick apology.
Melissa's head turns automatically.
She doesn't mean to look. She doesn't even know why she does. In the back row sits a boy with dark, messy hair and a slouched posture. He's reaching for the pen, his brown eyes flicking up to meet hers. The world seems to tilt. He isn't a jock in a letterman jacket. He's wearing black, looking detached and dangerous.
Her stomach dips.
Jeremy passes the pen as he stares at her with an intensity that makes her breath hitch. He doesn't smile. He doesn't look away. Just stares, his gaze unreadable but full of something—curiosity? Judgment? Amusement?
Oh, Mother Earth. That hot guy is Jeremy?
But no—this isn't one of those stories where you fall for a guy on your first day. This isn't a movie.
Still... still, she can't deny he's gorgeous. And he's staring at her. His stare is so intense that it makes her want to sink into the floor. No way is she giving him any attention. Melissa whips her eyes away, pulse quickening.
As Melissa stands there, eyes darting away from Jeremy, Mrs Miller's mind drifts back to the emergency staff meeting held just forty-eight hours ago.
The Principal had paced the front of the faculty lounge, his expression uncharacteristically sombre. "We have a student joining us mid-semester," he'd told the group, his voice lowered as if the walls themselves had ears.
"Melissa Montenegro. I've reviewed her file, and while I won't go into specifics for her privacy, her move from California wasn't a casual choice. It was a necessity." He had paused, locking eyes with each teacher. Personal reasons—significant ones. She's bright, but she's coming in at a disadvantage, both academically and emotionally. I'm asking you to go beyond the syllabus. Give her the space she needs, but don't let her fall through the cracks. She needs a win. Let's make sure she finds it here."
Mrs Miller snaps back to the present. She sees the way Melissa's hands are shaking and the way the "popular "girls are already circling like sharks. She remembers the Principal's words: She needs a win.
"Thank you, Melissa," Mrs Miller says, her voice intentionally softening to create a buffer against the classroom's cold atmosphere. Classic books, you say? I hope you adapt soon. We're actually just starting our deep dive into the themes of isolation and identity in the book The Great Gatsby."
She glances at her seating chart, then back at the tension-filled room. Her eyes land on a small island of apparent safety in the centre of the room.
"There's an open desk right there in the middle," Mrs Miller decides, gesturing toward a cluster of students. Between Miss Sterling and Miss Hayes."
Two girls sit nearby, leaning back with an air of practised ease. One is a redhead with a cascade of perfect waves; the other, a brunette with delicate gold earrings that catch the light. They are effortlessly stylish in their pleated skirts, looking like they walked straight off a high-end fashion mood board. They aren't giggling like the others; instead, they offer Melissa small, welcoming smiles that radiate "inner circle" energy.
Melissa feels a flicker of hope. Maybe the centre of the room is safer than the edges.
She begins to walk down the aisle, her eyes fixed on the empty chair. She is almost there, almost out of the spotlight, but JJeremy'sgaze follows her like a physical weight. He does not blink, his dark intensity tracking her every step.
Suddenly, a designer-clad foot shoots out into the aisle.
Melissa ddoesn'tsee it until iit'stoo late. Her toe catches, and her momentum carries her forward. With a sharp gasp, she stumbles, her grip loosening on her bag. It hits the floor with a heavy thud, the zipper bursting open.
Notebooks, pens, and loose folders slide across the linoleum. The room erupts in a few muffled snickers, but Melissa barely hears them. Her heart stops when she sees a single, glossy piece of paper flutter out from a hidden pocket of her bag. It glides through the air, flipping over twice, before landing right at the tip of JJeremy'sblack boot.
I thought I had left it at home.
The classroom goes deathly silent. Jeremy leans down, his long fingers brushing the floor as he retrieves the picture. He sits back, his eyes widening as they scan the image.
In the photo, a younger, radiant Melissa is laughing, her arm draped around a girl with a matching grin. But it's the rest of the photo that makes the blood drain from Melissa's face.
Standing right beside them are two other figures—a boy and a girl—whose faces have been obliterated. They haven't just been crossed out; they've been violently, manically scratched away with a thick, black permanent marker, the ink bleeding into the paper as if trying to erase their very existence.
Jeremy looks from the mangled photo up toMelissa's pale face. He ddoesn'thand it back. Instead, he leans forward, his voice a low, dangerous murmur that only she can hear.
"Who were you trying to erase, New Girl?"
