I’d survived my first week, and Monday rolled around again as it always does. If you’re lucky, apparently.

  Ms. Cho’s office smelled of citrus tea and printer ink and something sharper under both, like mangled ginger.

  She sat behind her desk, hands folded, posture perfect. The blinds were half?open, letting a bar of pale light fall across the green Northbridge crest over the closed door. It was all very “competent administrator.” Very normal. It would’ve fooled me completely a week ago.

  “Diana,” she said. “Thank you for coming between classes.”

  Like I had a choice. When Ms. Cho’s assistant appeared in your doorway and said, “The dean of admissions would like to see you,” you didn’t say, “Actually, I have plans with a sandwich.”

  I perched on the chair opposite her desk. It was comfortable enough not to squeak, which made me feel like I should be on my best behavior.

  “You’ve had an…eventful first week,” she said.

  Images flickered: flying lizards, logic puzzles, Wraith claws digging into my wrists, Janessa’s weaponized smile. “You could say that.”

  One corner of her mouth ticked like she’d been expecting the answer. “You’ve handled it better than many would. What I’m about to suggest is optional,” she went on. “Technically.” Her eyes held mine. “I believe you would benefit from it. And I believe Northbridge—and the wider community—would, too.”

  That didn’t sound ominous at all.

  She reached into a drawer and set a single envelope on the desk between us. Heavy cream paper, Mom’s name in hunter green calligraphy on the front. The flap was sealed with a silver blob of wax, the Northbridge crest stamped into it.

  “This is for your mother,” she said. “An invitation to a Saturday program. We call it a club for the sake of the calendar, but it’s more than that.”

  “What kind of club?” I asked. “Chess? Crochet? Death wrestling?”

  Her lips quirked. “I'll leave it to your imagination. You have community service hours to complete; this is preparation for that. It will also give you…context.” Her gaze sharpened. “You’re seeing pieces. It’s time to start seeing the framework.”

  “You mean the monsters,” I said, because we were way past pretending.

  “I mean the Unseen–who some are calling Darklings. I believe your friend Theo is fond of the term.” she said. “The ecosystems that intersect with the world that is more widely known. The responsibilities that come with knowing they exist.” She tapped a finger lightly against the envelope. “This explains the program to your mother in terms she will find comfortable. Knowing what we do would only upset her.”

  There it was again, that subtle lean beneath the words. The feeling of being drawn toward yes. She knew it didn’t work on me. Was it reflex? Habit? Or was she reminding me who she was.

  “I’d like your mother’s consent before you attend,” she added. “Saturday mornings, eight to noon. Transportation can be arranged if needed. You’ll still have Sundays free.”

  “Does…everyone go?” I asked.

  “Everyone?” She tilted her head. “Less than you think, more than you know.” Her eyes didn’t leave my face. “The ones who need to.”

  Like those with a tendency to get tackled by a Wraith on the lawn.

  I swallowed. The envelope sat there like it weighed ten pounds instead of one.

  “Bring it to her,” Ms. Cho said, her voice softening a notch. “Give her space to read it. If she has questions, she’s welcome to call me directly. My card is inside.”

  “And if she says no?” I asked.

  “Then we respect that,” Cho said immediately. “You’ll still have a place here. But you’ll be walking in the dark longer than you need to. That’s all.”

  For some reason, I didn’t believe her.

  I picked up the envelope. The wax was cool and slightly rough under my thumb.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll give it to her.”

  “Good.” She stood—meeting over, apparently—and the pressure in the room eased off by half. “You should head to lunch before your next class,” she added, suddenly very practical. “You haven’t been eating enough.”

  My stomach, traitor that it is, chose that moment to growl. Loudly.

  Heat climbed up my neck. “I—yeah. Working on it.”

  Her mouth did that almost?smile again. “We’ll talk more soon, Diana.”

  I escaped into the hallway, the envelope clutched in my hand. Kids flowed past in both directions, the between?periods tide already pulling toward the student center. I slipped into the current.

  The dining hall buzzed like a hive. Voices bounced off high ceilings. The smell of fries, pizza, something with rosemary, and a faint, safe salad?bar undertone hit me at once.

  By now I knew the drill. Grab a tray, move with the current, pretend you weren’t doing advanced calculus on where to sit. I’d eaten here a week—twice with the twins, once with Vinh talking me through algebra while I inhaled a slice—I hated when it was just me.

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  I loaded up on autopilot—two slices of cheese, an apple, a bottle of water—still feeling the cool weight of the envelope in my hand. When I turned toward the tables, a tiny hitch of panic skittered through my chest.

  At my old school, this was the part where you figured out which table you were allowed to sit at, which one would get you stared down, which one meant eating alone pretending you were deeply invested in your phone. A week in here and I still hadn’t figured out the rules.

  I picked a table near the edge, not too close to the doors, not in the dead center where the noise was loudest. Sat with my tray and the envelope and my Latin book, in case I needed the universal shield of I’m Studying, Don’t Talk to Me.

  For a few seconds, it was fine. Just me and my pizza and the low roar of lunchtime.

  Then I noticed the looks.

  Not the overt, Who’s the new kid? stares. More like glances that snagged and slid away. A couple of kids at a nearby table broke off mid?conversation to look at me, then at each other, eyebrows doing tiny little dances.

  At another table, a girl I vaguely recognized from biology—dark braid, perfect eyeliner—leaned toward her friend and murmured something. The friend’s eyes flicked to me, did a quick pass over my face, the envelope by my tray, and back.

  “…that’s her…”

  “…sat with the Torreses…”

  “…Vinh, too…”

  My fork hovered over my plate.

  A freshman boy with a Robotics Club T?shirt walked past my table with his tray. He did a double take, then blurted, “Uh—hey. You’re Sinclair, right? From…uh…” He flailed for a second. “From Vinh’s group?”

  I blinked. “I guess?” I said.

  His face lit up. “Cool. Welcome. If you ever want help with, like, physics or coding or whatever, I’m around.” He gestured vaguely toward a corner where a cluster of laptop?hunched kids sat. “We, um, owe that crowd some favors. Most of them don't know. You know.” He waved at his table.

  “The…what crowd?” I asked.

  “You know. Annex people.” He winced, realizing he’d overstepped. “Sorry. I mean, just—welcome.” He scurried off before I could grab the word Annex and pin it down.

  Two sophomores slid into a table one over from mine. One of them—blazer sleeves pushed up, curling dark hair—nudged the other and stage?whispered, not quite softly enough, “That’s her, right? The new Scholarship kid in with Ang and the twins?”

  “Yeah,” the other said, eyes wide. “Theo, too.”

  Scholarship kid. My appetite did a weird tug?of?war with curiosity.

  At the far end of the room, the doors from the quad banged open. Heads turned in a small, unwilling?to?be?obvious wave. Janessa walked in with her usual orbit—half a dozen admirers in her wake. Conversations near her path shifted, bodies tilting, laughter sharpening.

  Her eyes skimmed the room, impersonal and queenly. They slid right over me this time, like I was part of the furniture.

  Relief and something like indignation tangled in my chest.

  Before I could decide which one to lean into, two familiar figures cut through the crowd.

  “Diana!” Sera called, already beelining for my not?so?lonely?anymore table. The gold bracelet on her wrist flashed—a tiny butterfly charm catching the light.

  “Is this seat taken?” Shara asked, even as she was setting her tray down across from me, her own matching bracelet glinting, tiny rose charm winking. I was silently grateful for the jewelry; it made telling them apart so much easier.

  It wasn’t, obviously, but the question was a courtesy, not a real ask. I nodded anyway. “Nope. Please. Rescue me from my own thoughts.”

  “Always,” Sera said, dropping into the chair like she’d been aiming for this spot all day.

  Shara slid into the seat beside her. “We were going to sit with the team,” she said, “but you looked like you needed some company.”

  The shift in the room was almost physical.

  People who hadn’t been paying attention to me before were paying attention now. A table with three juniors actually went silent for a weird couple of seconds, all eyes flicking our way before they remembered they had food.

  Over by the windows, Robotics Boy shot me a quick thumbs?up when he thought I wasn’t looking. Across the room, Vinh sat with a group from fencing; his gaze swept the hall, landed on our table, and lingered just long enough to count as acknowledgement before he went back to whatever someone was saying.

  “Oh,” I said slowly, a piece clicking into place. “You guys could’ve…sat anywhere.”

  “Sure,” Sera said, spearing a piece of salad like she was dueling it. “But we wanted to sit here.”

  Shara gestured with her fork at the envelope by my tray. “Official letter?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Saturday…thing. Field stuff. She wants me to bring it to my mom.”

  “Ah,” Sera said, in a way that said of course and no surprise at the same time.

  “Welcome to the weekend crowd,” Shara added. “You’ll like it. Eventually.”

  “Is this the part where you tell me nothing is wrong with giving up my Saturdays?” I asked. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s a cult line.”

  They laughed in stereo.

  “It’s not a cult,” Sera said. “It’s…more school.”

  “With teamwork exercises,” Shara said. “Less homework. More martial skills.”

  I thought that over.

  Sera leaned in, dropping her voice just enough that it wouldn’t carry. “You’re not the only one, you know,” she said. “Scholarship plus extra?curricular invitation. We all got one, once upon a time.”

  “All who?” I asked, even though I already knew some of the names.

  Shara counted off on her fingers. “Vinh. Theo. Us. A bunch of others.”

  “Basically the people everyone else stares at when they walk in a room,” Sera added, unbothered.

  I looked around.

  Janessa at her corner table, field too far away to touch me but still pulling kids into her orbit. Vinh with the fencers, posture perfect, knife no doubt clipped to his belt under the table. A flash of Theo’s grin as he slid into a seat with some kids I recognized from gym. The twins here, making my nothing table suddenly the most interesting piece of furniture in a thirty?foot radius.

  “Oh,” I said again, but it came out different this time. Less question. More realization.

  At my old school…well, we didn’t have scholarships, but you knew which kids got assistance. It might as well have been a neon sign that said charity case. Here, it was…something else. A golden ticket. A target. A spotlight I hadn’t even realized I was standing in.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Shara said, reading my face accurately enough to be rude if I hadn’t liked her. “The staring.”

  “And if you ever hate it, come sit with us by the pool,” Sera added. “Nobody looks at you there. They’re too busy trying not to drown.”

  A laugh escaped me, small and real. “Deal,” I said.

  I picked up a slice of pizza. The envelope sat by my tray, wax seal catching the light every time I moved.

  Scholarship kid. Saturday club. Monsters in the margins of my notebooks.

  I’d wanted a seat at the cool kids’ table so badly I’d spray?painted a wall for it. In a weird way, that had worked out. The incident report the cops filed had landed me here, where the cool kids’ table came pre?assigned.