The Heir's Tutor

I arrive early because early is quiet, and quiet rarely remembers anyone. The front gates of Fletcher Academy are still half-asleep, iron bars open just wide enough to let people slip through quietly. The air carries a kind of polish that feels intentional, sharp and clean in a way I do not yet have language for. I move through it as if I belong, even while my attention stays tuned to exits, corners, and anything that might require an adjustment.

Uniforms tell the truth faster than faces. Jackets cut too precisely, shoes that have never been bent at the toe and watches worn loose, as if time itself has been trained to cooperate. I take it in without fixing my gaze anywhere for too long, because looking too closely invites questions.

I choose my route with care, avoiding the center walkway where eyes linger, and the edges where people get counted. Somewhere in between works best, visible enough to be ordinary and unremarkable enough to be ignored.

Inside, the hallway echoes faintly. Lockers shine and I match my pace to the building and line my rules up in my head, familiar and steady.

Do not linger.

Do not repeat.

Do not give anyone a reason to remember you.

Survive the first day and everything else can come later.

“Okay, but if we are doing this, we are doing it together.”

The voice lands beside me as if it belongs there. A girl drops into the empty seat at my right, already tugging her bag beneath the desk, already comfortable enough to rearrange the space. She takes the seat beside me without hesitation, close enough to reset the space, fast enough that I do not react in time.

She turns, smiling easily. “I’m Krizzy with a K. People get that wrong, but I fix it. Most of the time politely.”

“Oh.” The word comes a beat late. “I’m Clara.”

“I know.” She taps the desk once, casual but assured. “You have scholarship energy. Early arrival, calm posture, eyes that say you are not here to cause trouble and I respect it.”

“That feels,” I say carefully, “very specific.”

She shrugs. “I notice things.”

The comment lands in a way I do not like because being noticed was never part of the plan. Krizzy leans back like the choice has already been made, like the seat beside her has always been mine. I do not move because it feels easier than objecting.

“Quick translation,” Krizzy says, lowering her voice as the room begins to fill. “Before this place decides what you are.”

Students filter in around us, louder now, finding their places with quiet certainty. Krizzy angles her head, speaking without looking directly at anyone.

“Front rows are legacies, or people who want teachers to think they are. The back corner by the windows, are athletes. The table near the cafeteria doors at lunch,” she winces, “That one is a problem. No one sits there unless they are about to vanish socially.”

“I was planning to sit wherever there was space,” I say and she laughs softly.

“That works in theory but not here.” She counts off points on her fingers. 

“The loud ones are protected and the quiet ones are watched. The quiet ones who look confident make people nervous.” I glance at my notebook.

“I just want to get through the day.” Krizzy studies me for a moment, something thoughtful crossing her face before she smooths it away.

“Then I will help.”

Help is never simple since it comes with quiet expectations, with a balance that has to be paid back eventually, even if no one says so out loud. Before I can respond, something in the hallway changes. The volume does not rise, but the focus does, as if attention has shifted in the same direction all at once. Conversations taper off, chairs scrape once and then not again. A few heads turn carefully, almost politely. I keep my eyes where they are, I do not need to look to understand what just entered the room.

Someone passes the doorway with the kind of presence that clears space without effort. Tall, composed, unhurried, as if the hallway has learned to accommodate him. His uniform fits perfectly, worn like protection rather than decoration. A breath leaves the row behind me, slow and reverent.

I keep my eyes on the desk, on a faint scratch in the wood shaped like a crooked line. In the reflection, my expression stays even, practiced into place over years. The moment moves on and sound returns in layers, cautious at first, then normal again. I tell myself it does not matter, but my body does not agree.

Krizzy leans closer, her elbow brushing mine. “You did not look.”

“I did not have to,” I say.

Her smile shifts, sharpening just slightly. “That was Isaac Fletcher.”

The name finds its place quickly, like a label clicking into a file.

“I do not know who that is,” I reply, keeping my tone flat. She watches me a moment longer than necessary. 

“You do not need to. Just do not do what you just did again.”

“What did I do?”

“That.” She taps the side of her head. 

“The noticing without reacting. People catch that.”

“I was not staring.”

“I know.” Her voice drops. “That is the problem.”

The bell rings, bright enough to reset the room, and Krizzy straightens as if she has not just offered me something that sounded like advice and felt like a warning.

“This place,” she says lightly, “does not reward girls who think they can stay unseen forever.”

Homeroom settles around us in steady motions, chairs filling, names called, the day arranging itself with practiced ease. When attendance reaches our row, Krizzy answers before I do, casual and unbothered, as if we arrived together and always meant to.

I look around without appearing to, aware of how simple things shift meaning here. No one stares, but I can feel the small adjustments being made, the way proximity becomes assumption, and assumption becomes a version of the truth.

Krizzy nudges her chair a little closer, subtle enough to pass as comfort, clear enough to be noticed by anyone paying attention. I had planned to move through this place without leaving a mark and that plan already feels less certain. As the teacher turns toward the board, Krizzy leans in, her voice lowered just enough to disappear into the room.

“That was Isaac Fletcher. Don’t make a habit of watching him.”

I keep my eyes forward and my expression steady, though my pulse refuses to cooperate.

“I wasn’t,” I say. She hums softly, unconvinced. 

“Good. This place pays attention when people start patterns.”

The word stays with me longer than I expect. By the time I understand why, the day has already begun, and so has something else.