Author: admin

They summoned her to the headmistress’s office in the dead center of the third week. Julia knew enough by then to treat every summons as an event—nothing at this school was ever accidental, and each movement of students from one corridor to another was tracked and cross-referenced like a laboratory maze.

She arrived five minutes early, as expected, and found the antechamber deserted except for a secretary whose principal function seemed to be not seeing children. The double doors to Miss Milne’s sanctum were closed, opaque glass etched with the school’s Latin motto (“In Veritate, Virtus”—a phrase Julia had already mentally rewritten half a dozen times). She stood in the hush, counting the faint hums of the fluorescent light above, and rehearsed her lines.

The secretary, in time, gestured without looking up. “You can go in.”

Miss Milne’s office was a study in imposed order: shelves arranged by the colors of their bindings, desk bare but for a blotter and an antique brass paperweight in the shape of an owl. The windows were high and grimy, filtering daylight into a hard, white dazzle. Julia had seen Milne only in passing, but up close she was more angular, her skin stretched taut over the bones of her face, every gesture precise.

“Miss Holloway,” Milne said, standing to shake hands. Her grip was papery but strong. “Please. Sit.”

Julia did, perching on the edge of the chair, the way she’d seen it done on documentaries about job interviews.

Milne considered her for a long beat. “How are you finding St Teresa’s so far?”

Julia marshaled her response, recalling Eleanor’s advice: give them what they expect, but not too much. “It’s different than my last school,” she said. “It’s more… organized. People know their place.”

“Do you?” Milne asked, tilting her head.

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s essential, here.” Milne leaned back, steepling her fingers. “But I also notice you haven’t made any significant friends yet.”

Julia shrugged. “People are kind. It takes me longer.”

Milne nodded, as if to herself. “Sometimes it’s the quiet ones who end up making the biggest impact. I remember your grandmother, you know. She was a force of nature. Quite intimidating, in her way. Your mother, too, but less so.”

Julia said nothing, not trusting her voice to hide the sting of comparison.

Milne’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve reviewed your file. Your marks are more than satisfactory, and your teachers have only positive things to say. But I’m told you had… difficulty, at your last school?”

“Some. My mother thought it best I start somewhere new.”

“Is your mother ever in touch?” Milne asked, but her tone suggested the answer was already known.

“She’s busy,” Julia said, keeping her eyes on the owl.

Milne softened, just for a moment. “It can be difficult, when parents are—absent. But we’re here to support you.” She rose and crossed to the file cabinet, extracting a folder. She read from the sheet inside, her voice flattening into professional cadence: “You have shown, in a very short time, considerable aptitude in the computer lab. Ms. Jordan says you may already be ahead of the class.”

Julia’s heart tripped. “I just practice a lot.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But, as I’m sure you’ve realized, computers are both a tool and a responsibility. Sometimes students can become… over-enthusiastic.”

Julia forced herself to look up. “I’m careful.”

Milne gave a small, tight-lipped smile. “I trust you are.” She put the folder down, smoothing it with the palm of her hand. “Is there anything you want to ask me?”

Now. The moment.

Julia drew in a breath, arranging her features into the appropriate mask of anxiety. “Actually, I’ve been feeling—dizzy, sometimes. It started last week. I didn’t want to make a fuss, but sometimes I—” she let her words falter, “—black out, a little. My mother has low blood pressure, so maybe it’s genetic.”

For the first time, Milne looked worried. She stood, came around the desk. “Are you feeling faint now?”

Julia nodded, timing her blinks to look unfocused.

Milne touched her shoulder. “Wait here. I’ll fetch the nurse.”

As soon as the door closed behind her, Julia moved.

She scanned the desk: nothing loose. The drawers were locked, but the left one had a key still inside, probably to enable her to open it without shuffling through her bag for keys. Julia tried it; it turned smoothly. Inside, a set of brass keys on a blue tag (“Facilities”), a small ledger with a post-it (“Network: See note in safe”), and a school laptop, screen dark but warm. She pocketed the keyring and the sticky note, then turned her attention to the safe under the bookshelf. It was a cheap model, the kind her father used to keep at the parish office for counting donations, and she recognized the type. Most default to “0000,” and if not, then “1234.”

She knelt, entered the first code. It beeped red.

“1234” beeped green, and the lock popped.

Inside: a brown envelope, labeled “Admin Access,” and a USB stick in a clear plastic bag. She took only the envelope—never greedy, never reckless—and shut the safe, re-locking it.

She had just enough time to settle back in the chair, crossing her ankles, when the door opened and Milne returned with the nurse, who smelled of menthol and wore an expression permanently set to “seen it all.”

“Miss Holloway says she’s been fainting,” Milne said.

The nurse regarded Julia with a professional blankness. “Eat breakfast today?”

“Yes,” Julia said, truthful.

“Pale,” the nurse said, pinching the skin on Julia’s hand, then glancing at the veins in her wrist. “It’s not uncommon, especially with the stress of new situations.”

“I’ll keep an eye,” Milne said. “If it gets worse, we’ll have the doctor in.”

The nurse nodded and left. Milne watched Julia for a moment, then said, “You can go now. But take it easy for the rest of the day.”

Julia stood, wobbling slightly for effect, then left.

In the corridor, she ducked into a side hallway and checked her haul. The keys were heavy—metal worn smooth at the edges—and the tag listed doors by number, many of which she recognized as offices, storage, even some of the other accommodation blocks. The sticky note read: “Network: jmilne / FALCON1965.”

The brown envelope contained three pages: a printout of all the school’s major logins, the administrator password for the core server, and a backup list of parental contacts for every student.

She exhaled, the rush of adrenaline making her hands tremble. She slipped everything into her blazer’s inside pocket, then walked, measured and calm, back to her room.

Victoria was there, painting her nails on the windowsill, foot propped up on the radiator.

“Where’d you go?” Victoria asked, not looking up.

“Headmistress wanted to check on me,” Julia said, sliding onto her bed.

Victoria sniffed, the chemical tang of polish mixing with the radiator’s metallic heat. “You’re lucky. Milne scares the crap out of most girls.”

Julia said, “She’s not so bad.”

Victoria shot her a look, one eyebrow raised. “You’re a dark horse, Holloway.”

Julia shrugged, and let the silence fill in the rest.

That night, after lights out, she lay in bed listening to the hiss of the pipes and the gentle patter of rain against the glass. She reached under her mattress and removed the keys, running her thumb over the ridges, each tooth a potential doorway.

She thought of Eleanor’s words, about wearing the face they expect, about cultivating a second life.

She understood, now, what her currency was.

She would spend it wisely.

Visitation weekend broke the monotony of the term with a chaos all its own. The school went into full-on cosmetic panic: floors buffed to mirror shine, bouquets trucked in for the entrance hall, even the cooks pressed into service making towers of iced buns and fragile finger sandwiches. Saturday morning, the corridors bristled with girls trying on borrowed blazers and perfecting hair they’d never care about on any other day.

In the hothouse of the refectory, Julia watched the parade of parents as they signed in—blazers and Barbour for the men, country florals or crisp navy for the mothers. Most girls trailed behind their families, faces lit with a kind of urgent anticipation. Julia loitered at the edge of the crowd, expecting nothing, so when she spotted her grandmother by the coffee urn, it was less a surprise than the snapping of a prediction into place.

Eleanor Holloway was exactly as Julia remembered: upright, spectral, her hair in its gravity-defying twist, expression composed but never warm. She wore a long navy coat with a silk scarf twisted so tightly at the throat it looked like a tourniquet. Her gloved hands held a paper cup of coffee, which she sipped without once glancing at the beverage.

“Julia.” The greeting was neutral, almost imperceptibly accented by approval at Julia’s promptness.

“Grandma.”

They exchanged a brief touch on the sleeve; nothing so undignified as a hug.

Eleanor steered her away from the refectory and its noise, toward the winter-stripped formal gardens. “We will have privacy,” she said. “You do not mind the cold?”

Julia shook her head. They walked single file down the flagstone path, the air sharp enough to burn the inside of her nose. The conversation, as always, began in the negative: Was the food inedible? Was the dorm drafty? Had the headmistress made herself ridiculous? These were safe topics, and Julia handled them with the expected minimum of elaboration.

Eleanor, for her part, seemed to be conducting an invisible audit—her eyes drifted from Julia’s shoes to her buttoning to the neatness of her plaits, as if searching for evidence of a misstep. Eventually, when all the checklists were satisfied, she shifted gears.

“And the girls?” Her tone implied a taxonomy: species, temperament, food chain.

Julia considered. “They’re as expected. There are five main cliques, but a lot of cross-pollination. Victoria is the leader in our year.”

Eleanor smirked, but it was fond. “There’s always a Victoria. Is she clever?”

“She’s very—” Julia paused, recalling the calculus of every hallway run-in, every volley of subtext. “She’s clever about people. Not about the work.”

Eleanor nodded, the faintest smile acknowledging the distinction.

They reached the garden bench, its surface rimed with frost. Eleanor brushed off a patch with her handkerchief and sat, motioning for Julia to do the same.

“There is something you should understand,” Eleanor said, tone shifting to a frequency Julia recognized as ‘the real conversation.’ “Girls like Victoria rule by charisma, but that currency is brittle. Your currency is different.”

Julia watched a crow picking at the lawn’s edge. “It’s not worth much.”

“Nonsense. You are valuable precisely because you don’t need to be seen. You’re a listener. That’s rarer than you imagine.”

Julia looked at her grandmother, searching for the trap in the compliment.

Eleanor unbuttoned her glove, as if preparing for surgery. “The trick, darling, is to let them think you’re exactly as they perceive. Never challenge their image of you—at least not directly. Instead, cultivate a second face, the one you show only to yourself. That is your advantage.”

“Is that what you do?” Julia asked.

A thin laugh. “At my age, I find people see what they want regardless. But you—you are young enough to make use of it.”

They sat in silence, breath making twin plumes. The only sound was the low mutter of a groundskeeper scraping the path nearby.

After a while, Eleanor reached into her bag and handed Julia a brown-paper parcel, sealed with a neat strip of tape. “From your mother,” she said. “Books, I think.”

Julia tucked it under her arm, her eyes stinging for a reason she refused to name.

As they walked back to the main building, Eleanor’s advice orbited Julia’s thoughts. She considered the power of invisibility, of appearing docile and harmless while running code in the background, mapping every weakness and open port. She thought of the admin password and how she would soon achieve that goal.

At the door, Eleanor paused, laying a gloved hand briefly on Julia’s shoulder. “Remember: secrets are only useful if you can bear the weight of them.”

“I understand,” Julia said, and she did.

After her grandmother was gone, Julia opened the parcel in the privacy of her room. It was, as predicted, books—two battered crime novels and a logic puzzle compendium with an inscription in Charlotte’s handwriting. She traced the letters with her finger, then put the book aside and went to the window.

Below, on the lawn, Victoria and her father were playing catch with a rugby ball, their laughter visible even from this height. To the left, a girl clung to her mother, face pressed to the floral scarf, refusing to let go. To the right, another parent checked his watch, already impatient to leave.

Julia watched it all, cataloguing, weighing, assembling her own private taxonomy.

She felt the shape of her grandmother’s words settling into place, a blueprint for how to proceed.

And so her secret would be that she was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

The second week calcified everything: the rituals of motion, the ways to avoid eye contact in stairwells, the lines of demarcation between the blocks of girls who, even at fifteen, had decided the world was best managed by division and rumor. Julia learned to walk with her head at a vector that discouraged approach—chin lowered, gaze unfocused but always working the periphery. To most, she registered as harmless background: a blur of mousy hair and too-long sleeves, a whisper of footsteps that left no impression in the carpet pile.

Classes bled into one another, a soup of vowels and the click of pen caps, punctuated only by the slow-burning dread that built before each lesson. History: the teacher who sweat through his shirts and stuttered when reading girls’ names from the register. Biology: Helena’s lab partner, who refused to share the pipette and spent the whole hour drawing cocks on the paper towel dispenser. English: Victoria, in her element, bending the discussion at will, drawing laughter with calculated asides that always landed just short of cruelty.

Computer Science was different. Julia could feel her skin loosen as she entered the lab, could feel the temperature gradient of anxiety slip back a degree or two. The room was a relic, donated by a parent who ran some Midlands data center; not quite beige plastic and CRTs but old. The air tinged with the smell of melted solder and compressed air. The teacher, Ms. Jordan, was young and obviously nervous—a temporary teacher, maybe, or someone covering for maternity leave—but her nervousness was of a kind Julia recognized: the tension of a person hiding something, always waiting for someone to notice the flaw in their disguise.

The syllabus was pathetic. The first lesson had been “How to Open a Spreadsheet.” Julia had run Excel on her mother’s ancient PC when she was six. By the end of the first session, she’d already figured out the local admin credentials for the workstations (they were, insultingly, “password1” and “admin123”). By the end of the third, she’d set up a partition on her machine, a little slice of privacy that nobody else could see.

She kept her head down, never raising her hand, never volunteering an answer unless directly called. She taught herself to type slowly, so that she stayed in tune with the rest of the group. Ms. Jordan sometimes tried to draw her out, mistaking her silence for uncertainty, but Julia would respond with a careful stammer, eyes fixed on the desk, voice pitched just above audibility. The class’s collective gaze always slid off her like rain on glass.

Her trick was to keep a work window open—a Word document or a prescribed website—while, in a hidden instance below, she ran her real work. At first she’d just explored the shared drive, poking through the folders of past years’ coursework, the recycled lesson plans, the digital detritus of generations of girls who’d passed through and never bothered to delete anything. Then, with careful method, she started mapping the school’s network. It was a hobby, at first. But then it became a compulsion.

Each user had a pattern: Victoria, despite her effortless surface, checked the gossip blog five times a day and maintained a surreptitious second email account for “private” correspondence. Helena’s browsing was 90% fanfic, 10% Amazon wishlists of piercings and band merch. Ms. Jordan’s history was a tragic carousel of dating sites and “am I a good teacher?” queries.

The system was locked down tighter at the staff level, but even then, Julia found ways to watch. She learned that every night at 11:17, the backup job pushed a copy of the entire student database to a shadow server that was, technically, outside the school’s firewall. She had to access the physical server and that was in a locked room off the main computer room.

She tried to think of a way to access this treasure and spent lots of time in the lesson thinking of how she might accomplish this feat.

Victoria noticed, once. During a rare group project, she looked over Julia’s shoulder and frowned. “You’re, like, a tech whiz, aren’t you?”

Julia shrugged, hiding the panic in her stomach. “Not really. My mum works with computers.”

“Does she hack stuff?” Helena, from the other side of the desk, perked up. “Like, for the government?”

“No. She just makes websites.” Julia kept her eyes on the monitor, minimizing her real work. “I’m not as good as her.”

Victoria said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.” She smiled, but there was a gleam of competitiveness in her eyes, the kind that looked for cracks. “Anyway, I’ll just copy yours at the end.”

Julia nodded, let them believe whatever they wanted.

At night, back in the room, she’d lie awake in the darkness, the din of Malvern block subsiding to the susurrus of snoring and surreptitious phones. She could hear Victoria’s breathing, steady and untroubled, the shifting of covers as she turned in her sleep. Sometimes, Julia watched her from the thin beam of the corridor light, noting the relaxed set of her jaw, the way she would murmur into her pillow like a child.

She wondered if Victoria dreamed about control, about the sensation of moving the world to her will. She wondered if she’d ever known what it felt like to be locked out, to be denied.

The thought filled her with a strange mix of pity and contempt.

The next morning, Julia woke early, and made her way to the Malvern kitchen. She sat in the empty echo and ate cold cereal with slow, methodical bites. She was thinking, always, about the password, about the server, about the unsolvable. It became less about wanting access and more about refusing to let the world keep a single secret from her.

She was so lost in thought she didn’t hear Victoria enter until she was standing next to her.

“You’re up early,” Victoria said, voice hoarse from sleep but with a smile that was nearly genuine. “Insomnia?”

Julia shook her head. “Just hungry, I guess.”

Victoria poured herself a coffee—black, no sugar. She considered Julia for a moment, then said, “You know, people are starting to notice. That you’re different.”

Julia held her gaze. “Is that bad?”

Victoria shrugged. “Not bad. Just… unusual. Girls who come in late usually either burn out or fade away. You haven’t done either.”

Julia wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a warning.

Victoria leaned in, elbows on the table. “If you want to make it here, you need to pick a side. People like confidence.”

Julia said nothing. The silence stretched.

“Anyway,” Victoria said, standing, “I’m off to get a run in before classes. See you in English?”

Julia nodded, watched her go.

She finished her cereal and, when no one was looking, pocketed the spoon.

In the next computer science lesson, Julia waited until Ms. Jordan was helping the twins in the front row. Then, quick and practiced, she fished the spoon from her bag and slipped it into the lock on the server closet. It bent, but didn’t break. After three tries, the latch gave and the door swung inward with a mechanical sigh.

She slid inside. The hum of the machines was overwhelming, a white-noise roar that made the space feel holy and forbidden.

The admin box was there, humming in the rack. She tried the usual credentials: nothing. She tried a few different combinations but still without luck. But interestingly, the system did not lock out access to the blue password box. That was hopeful at least.

She needed to find a way into the system. But then she thought of her appointment after the weekend with Miss Milne the Headteacher. 

Her official “How are you settling in” chat offered to all “new” students. Part of a dull routine but then again, she thought. smiling to herself she could turn it into an opportunity?

The school wore its newness like a scab: red brick raw against the sodden green of February, blank-eyed windows reflecting the winter sky, the air around it sharp with the ozone of scrubbed floors and bleach. The taxi driver, a man so resolutely featureless he seemed designed for forgettability, dumped Julia and her suitcase at the gravel path. There was no welcoming committee; just a chalked sign that said Reception with an arrow pointing east.

Inside, the floors gleamed as if still wet. The corridors stretched in every direction, punctuated by fire doors and the low-grade hum of fluorescent tubes. Julia advanced by increments: five steps, then wait, then another five. She had rehearsed this journey in her mind for weeks, always with variations—a teacher would greet her and usher her through, or a knot of girls would block her way, or someone would ask if she was lost. In reality, there was only the receptionist, who looked up without a smile and checked her name off a list with a red biro.

“You’re in Malvern. That’s the blue block,” the woman said. She handed over a key on a ribbon, a map, and a thin manila envelope. “Your mother’s sent forms. You’ll need to bring those to admin after lunch.”

Julia nodded, but the woman was already back to her screen.

The walk to Malvern took her across a dead quadrangle, the grass fenced off with rope and warning tape (“Turf Under Repair—Do Not Enter”). She followed the path by the map, half-expecting someone to step out and redirect her, but she met only a murder of crows, pecking at some unseen thing in the mud. The air was damp and it pressed against her clothes, making them cling. The only noise was the distant drone of a leaf blower.

The blue block looked exactly like every other building, but the door was unlocked and the heating was set so high the air inside tasted of hot dust. Each room off the corridor was labeled with a whiteboard: pairs of names in colored marker, separated by an ampersand as if announcing an act. Julia & Victoria, Room 204.

The door was ajar, just enough that she could hear the inside before she saw it. A girl’s voice, brittle and certain: “No, but she’s literally a ghost. I googled her and got nothing except two chess scores and a photo from 2013.” Another girl laughed, a weaponized titter. “Are you sure she’s even real?”

Julia considered her options and, for the briefest moment, entertained turning back. Instead she knocked, twice, and entered.

Victoria was perched on the desk, one leg folded up, the other swinging in a metronome arc. Her blonde hair was wound into a perfect French braid, her uniform modified in the allowable ways: top button undone, sleeves pushed up to reveal the tan line from her tennis watch. There was an instant, the very instant Julia entered, when Victoria’s face flickered through a dozen micro-expressions before settling on an amused blankness.

“Hi,” Julia said, setting down her suitcase on the bed nearest the window.

Victoria uncrossed her arms, but not her legs. “Welcome to Malvern. I’m Victoria, obviously.”

The other girl—red-haired, rawboned, with a face full of sharp edges—gave a little wave. “Helena. I’m next door.”

Julia nodded, but said nothing.

Victoria watched her, head tilted, as Julia began the silent process of unpacking: uniforms in the wardrobe, toiletries on the shelf, notebooks stacked on the desk in order of subject. It was a well-rehearsed ritual, a choreography for invisibility. She ignored the way Victoria tracked her every movement, like a cat observing a new arrival.

After a long minute, Victoria spoke. “So, where are you from?”

It was the question everyone asked, but it was also a test. Julia looked up. “Ludlow area,” she said. “South Shropshire. Near the border.”

Victoria smiled, all teeth. “Oh, so you’re basically Welsh.”

Helena snorted. “She doesn’t sound Welsh.”

“Give it time,” Victoria said, “she’ll pick it up. Everyone here does. Especially the sheep jokes.”

Julia forced a smile. “I’m not very good at jokes.”

Victoria hopped off the desk, closing the distance with two steps. She was taller than Julia by at least two inches, and she used it. “Well, you’ll have to get good at something,” she said. “Most girls here either do sports, or drama, or languages. Or they do, you know—people. Are you, like, academic?”

“I like maths,” Julia said. “And computers.”

Victoria did the slow blink of someone reframing a threat. “You’ll get on with the STEM crowd, then. They’re mostly in Upton block but you can join their clubs if you want. I’m lead in the play, and captain of tennis. Not that you’d want to try out, probably.”

Helena said, “They’re not scary, the sports girls. But it’s pretty full-on. Like, a lot of running around at night.”

Victoria leaned closer, voice lowered. “If you ever need anything, or anyone bothers you, come find me. We take care of our own.”

Julia nodded again, tucking her hands in the cuffs of her cardigan. She recognized the rhythm, the hierarchy. There were always Victorias: the ones who set the rules and claimed the territory, who mapped every interaction as an extension of their own influence.

Victoria gave a little snort, not quite laughter. “Seriously, you’re like a bird that fell out of the nest. Are you always this—” she gestured, taking in Julia’s slightness, her pale wrists, the curtain of hair, “—tiny?”

“Sometimes,” Julia said.

Helena giggled, but there was something softer in her eyes, a kind of pity or perhaps a hint of shared unease.

Victoria’s phone chimed. She ignored it. “We have registration in ten, then double history. Do you have the timetable yet?”

Julia fished the schedule from her envelope, unfolding it with careful precision. “It’s here.”

“Let me see.” Victoria snatched the paper and scanned it, her finger tracing the blocks. “You’re with us for history, English, and PSHE. Maths is in the old annex, so you’ll have to get used to the stairs. Assembly is Wednesdays. Lunch is at twelve, but the queue starts at eleven forty, unless you have a pass.”

She handed the timetable back, a smirk on her face. “Stick with me, or you’ll get lost. Literally. The building is a maze and no one will come find you if you go missing.”

Julia smiled, this time with an edge of her own. “I have a good sense of direction.”

Helena grinned. “Bet you five quid she finds the canteen before Victoria.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow. “Bet you ten she gets lost in the gym changing rooms and ends up in the boys’ block.”

They all laughed, and for a moment Julia felt the ice thin just enough to make the world navigable. She glanced out the window at the quadrangle, the crows now gone, the grass still roped off. In the reflection, she saw the three of them: Victoria in the foreground, radiant and self-satisfied; Helena, angular and hungry-looking; and herself, a blurred shadow at the edge.

Victoria checked the time. “Grab your books. We’ll go early so you can see where the classrooms are.”

Julia picked up her notebook, the one her mother had insisted on (“You should keep a diary, darling, it helps process transitions”). She slipped it into her satchel.

As they left, Victoria glanced back at Julia’s bed, at the careful lines of the blanket and the perfect parallel of the pillow. “You’re neat,” she said, as if accusing her of something.

Julia didn’t reply.

The corridor was brighter than she remembered, the light from outside refracting through glass bricks and catching every mote of dust. The three of them moved as a unit, Victoria in the lead, Helena flanking, Julia trailing but always watching.

At the staircase, Victoria turned, eyes catching Julia’s. “Just so you know, some of the girls are… territorial. If anyone says anything, tell me, okay?”

Julia nodded, but inside she was cataloguing the warnings, annotating every interaction for future use. She’d survived worse than this. She’d survived her mother’s indifference and her grandmother’s razor-sharp lessons and the endless, echoing silence of her own house after dark.

They reached the classroom with time to spare. Victoria staked out a spot at the front, dropping her bag onto a chair and claiming the table beside it. Helena took the seat behind, leaving Julia to choose: wedge in at the front, or retreat to the back where the other girls already clustered.

Julia chose the middle. It was safer, and from there she could see everything.

The teacher arrived, a man with thin hair and a voice like shredded paper. Victoria and Helena greeted him by name. Julia watched, saying nothing.

By the end of the lesson, she had mapped the seating chart, identified three distinct factions, and memorized the route back to her dorm.

During break, Victoria cornered her at the lockers. “Don’t take it personally if people are weird. They just hate new kids, especially ones who come in late.”

Julia said, “I don’t mind being invisible.”

Victoria paused, really looked at her. For a moment the bravado cracked and she saw something else—a recognition, maybe, of another kind of predator. But then it passed, and Victoria smiled again, brighter than ever. “Invisibility is a power,” she said. “Use it.”

Julia nodded, and did.

By evening, Julia had her bed made, her schedule memorized, and a running inventory of every girl in her year. She lay on her side in the dark, listening to the murmur of voices through the thin walls. She heard Helena giggling next door, the metallic snick of a lighter, the drift of whispered insults and declarations of love and plans for the weekend.

On the desk, her mother’s latest letter, unopened. She ignored it.

Instead, she pressed her ear to the cool plaster and listened.

Everything was data. Everything was leverage.

By the third night, she had learned how to move silently through the corridors after lights out, how to make it to the common bathroom without triggering the motion sensor, how to fold her body into the smallest possible space to avoid detection.

It wasn’t survival. It was preparation.

She would wait, and watch, and one day soon, the balance would tip.