Chapter 15 - Westlake Corridors
The hallways of Westlake Middle School felt like a marble mausoleum designed by an architect who hated natural light. The lockers were brushed stainless steel instead of the banged-up gray tin at our old school off Slaughter Lane, and the kids walking between periods didn't wear faded Old Navy jeans and scuffed Vans—they wore Patagonia fleeces, brand-new Golden Goose sneakers with pre-scuffed dirty soles that cost more than my winter coat, and carried Hydro Flasks covered in stickers from ski trips in Vail and Aspen.
I stood by my locker—number 412, right next to the AP history wing—and spun the combination dial twice.
"You're the new girl from South Austin, right?"
I turned around. A tall girl with sharp hazel eyes and dark blonde hair pulled back into a high, perfect ponytail was leaning against the locker next to mine. She was wearing a cream-colored cashmere sweater and holding a silver iPad with an Apple Pencil tucked into the magnetic case.
"I'm Maya," she said, offering her hand. Not a limp, hesitant handshake like the kids at my old school, but a firm, confident grip. "My mom’s on the school board. She mentioned someone transferring in mid-semester under special guardianship arrangements. Usually, that means family drama or bankruptcy."
"Both," I said, without missing a beat.
Maya’s eyebrows arched in genuine surprise, followed immediately by a sharp, appreciative grin. "God, I love directness. Everyone here talks in code. If someone hates your jacket, they tell you it’s 'so vintage.' Who’s your guardian? The aunt with the Frost Bank connection?"
"Sarah," I said.
Maya whistled softly. "Oh, wow. Sarah Miller? My dad tried to pitch her a tech startup last year and she ripped his business plan to shreds in the first five minutes before buying out his competitor's debt. She's a legend. If you live with her, nobody in this zip code is going to dare mess with you."
The warning bell rang, a low, resonant chime that echoed off the terrazzo floors. As the hallway cleared out, I slid my pre-algebra textbook into my backpack and noticed a group of girls standing by the water fountain at the end of the hall. One of them had long, dark hair and was wearing a bright pink windbreaker that looked vaguely familiar.
My stomach gave a sudden, cold twist.
It wasn't Madison—Madison was still stuck back in our old subdivision dealing with the fallout of her mother’s abrupt departure—but the girl standing next to her, laughing loudly while tossing her blond curls, was Chloe.
Chloe had moved to Westlake over the Christmas break after her parents' sudden separation became permanent. She hadn't seen me yet, her back turned as she adjusted her backpack strap, but the sight of her standing by the fountain brought back the smell of gym floor wax and the metallic scrape of the bleachers where she had stood watching Karen humiliate me over a sixty-five-dollar costume.
Maya noticed my sudden stiffness and followed my gaze down the hall.
"Ah," Maya said, her voice dropping into a dry drone. "Chloe Vance. Her family just rented a teardown on Lake Austin Boulevard after her stepdad got wiped out in some real estate scandal down south. She spends half her time pretending she owns a yacht and the other half crying in the third-floor bathroom because her mother cut off her allowance."
"She knows me," I said quietly.
"Do you want me to deal with her?" Maya asked, her hand resting casually on the strap of her iPad case. "My dad’s firm handles their property litigation. I can make her life very uncomfortable before first-period geometry."
May you like
"No," I said, zipping my backpack closed with a sharp *zip*. "Let her look."
***
