The New Kid

Emma Miller had been at the school for three weeks, and still nobody called her by name. The teacher said it at roll call; she raised her hand quick, like swatting a fly, and the morning moved on. That was fine. She was good at moving on.

At lunch she sat at the end of a long table, unwrapping a sandwich her mother made. Two girls whispered behind cupped hands. She felt their eyes on her like moths on a lamp. She didn't look up.

In science, they split into pairs. Nobody chose her. Mr. Naylor paired her with Jack, who sighed and dragged his chair closer, as if distance cost him something. She passed him a pencil, unprompted. He blinked, took it, and the sigh went out of him.

At the end of the day, in the doorway, Jack said, "You're not so bad, Miller."
She smiled and almost told him the first thing her mother taught her: that moving on works until someone moves with you. Instead she said, "Jack's a good name."

He laughed. She laughed. The bell rang, and the hallway opened up around them like a door.

The new kid was gone. Emma had arrived.