The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Prologue

The conversation was carried on in a language few people would have been able to understand, let alone speak. Translated into colloquial American English, it might have sounded something like this:

“But it is possible? Originally you said it could not be accomplished at all.”

“Possible, yes. Feasible—who knows? It is a question of adaptation. For ourselves, it is too late; we are being irreversibly poisoned by this place as we speak. For the next generation, there is hope. Perhaps. It will not be an easy task.”

“What must be done? Speak! There is no greater priority.”

“It is a question of balance. Our young are more adaptable than we are. Measured ongoing exposure—no, let me be clear, continuous exposure— during prenatal development can provide their systems with a chance to accommodate to the toxins here, allowing the child to build resistance that will last through the remainder of its life.

“That is all? Why has this not already been initiated?”

“All?” There followed what might have been called a laugh. “Perhaps you did not comprehend the nuances of my statement. Continuous prenatal exposure consistently at the required levels, within the reach of our available resources, is achievable only if native hosts are used as surrogate mothers. Considering the requirements involved and our location, we must use the dominant species for this purpose.”

“Excellent! There are millions of them, all over! The relative few we require will hardly be missed. What is the problem here?”

“There are several problems, as you would know if you spent more time studying our reports and less time studying other crewmembers. Most importantly, suitable specimens are not as easy to acquire as you imagine. First, understand this process is a very stressful one for the host, which must adapt itself to our young in the same way that the child will be adapting itself to the host and this environment. Only young, healthy hosts will be able to survive this process, even with assistance—and if the parent dies, so does the child. This, of itself, substantially reduces the available resource pool.”

“Second, considerable effort will be required to achieve implantation in the first place. The biologies are dissimilar and it is likely rejection will occur unless we can increase the levels of key compounds in the host before the implantation occurs. It is annoying that the local life forms filter these compounds readily, so constant reintroduction of them will be required. Additionally, our technical resources are inadequate to support any project of meaningful size, so implantation will need to occur naturally.”

“Mate with one of these freaks! That is what you are implying? That is outrageous and obscene!”

“That is not what I understood you to be telling that specialist last night. Nevertheless, you—or others—will need to consider this if you wish to have a future generation to perform your funeral rites. It further complicates matters that we are only barely physically compatible.”

“Third, recall the dominant species consists of two distinct sexes—”

“Disgusting! How do they mate?”

“—which procreate much the same way we do, except mating requires one of each sex, and their roles are fixed by gender. The ‘females’ unsurprisingly make up about half of the local candidate population.”

“Fourth, like ourselves, this species appears to be quite protective of its adolescents, although we have observed some conflicting data in this regard. Generally, we would be wise to assume their reactions would mirror our own. As we have discussed before, we cannot afford to agitate the local population with our presence, and our young would be most vulnerable to predation.”

“In conclusion, we require access to a relatively small demographic of the local population, one most calculated to enrage it, for an extended period of time prior to implantation and while the young are carried to term, in numbers beyond what our resources may support. Thus, I believe our survival is possible but improbable.”

“Esteemed elder, my team has considered these factors and may be able to contribute in this area.”

“That is well; share your thoughts with us.”

“In summary, we will pay them to bring their young females to us.”

“No rational being would do such a thing!”

“Ha! You speak of ‘mail order brides’?”

“I must apologize for being overly concise; allow me to restate our proposal. We will need interfaces with the local population, undoubtedly, but each presents substantially increased risk. Implemented correctly, we believe it is possible to pay ‘humans’ to perform most of the required work unwittingly, with only the most restricted amount of physical contact required.”

“What ‘implementation’ do you contemplate?”

“We suggest buying a school. Humans send their young to them on a near-daily basis for significant fractions of time. In particular, a ‘high school’ will be populated almost exclusively by adolescents who have recently reached sexual maturity. The nature of the command hierarchy at such an institution further allows us significant control over all aspects of it with relatively little exposure.”

“Surely we cannot simply buy a school? Who would send their young to be educated by untrusted unknowns?”

“Surprisingly, most local humans, it would appear. A phenomenon known as ‘charter schools’ seems be enjoying some popularity at present; it would be best, we believe, to obtain controlling interest in a private company, and encourage that company to run the school for us. If we contrive to place a suitable human in the ‘principal’ role our influence will be substantial and it should be possible to condition all humans at the school with reduced risk and effort.”

“This is possible?”

“The humans have a saying: ‘money talks.’ Conveniently for us, their monetary system is highly computerized and tangible currency is not often used in significant transactions. We suggest that ...”

June

“Yes, yes, Ms. Wakefield, I assure you we have considered this decision extremely carefully and the entire council is in unanimous agreement on this point.” The man in the center seat on the podium struggled to contain his exasperation. “As you know, Ms. Haskell has investigated all aspects of the proposal before the council, personally and in great detail. I believe you’ve had an opportunity to review her reports?”

The frustrated woman behind the audience microphone reiterated her point. “I just don’t think it’s right to punish our teachers because of an isolated problem or two brought on by poor parenting—and bad administration! We don’t even know these Tranco people.”

He obviously was unconvinced. Still. “I’m afraid that’s the end of the time we have reserved for public input. If the council remains in agreement”—the man looked for nods from the others seated beside him— “then by unanimous vote, Lawrence Hyde High School is designated a charter school by the Town of Springfield. Further, TRAINCO Corporation is granted the authority to operate the school for a period of 5 years, subject to review, under the terms and conditions previously disclosed and mutually agreed upon. This meeting of the Town Council is hereby adjourned; good evening.”

August

Zoe Ryan looked curiously at the sign the workers were adjusting: “Lawrence Hyde Charter High School: A TRAINCO Instructional Facility”. It topped the security gate, also still under construction, that led onto the school campus. The blonde-haired girl snapped a quick picture with her cell phone before skipping ahead a few steps to rejoin her mother, and continued scanning her surroundings as the pair followed the freshly placed signs to the administration building.

A woman behind the counter greeted them cheerfully as they entered the registration lobby. “Good afternoon, ladies, and welcome to Lawrence Hyde Charter High School! I’m Nancy; how may I assist you today?” It certainly didn’t look anything like her last school, Zoe reflected. Possibly that was the point. She hung back and let her mother carry the conversation.

“Hi, Nancy, I’m Becky Ryan and this is my daughter, Zoe. We’d like to get Zoe registered for this fall!”

Nancy beamed. “Oh, wonderful! You picked a perfect time; we were so busy last week. A transfer, right? And for what level will she be registering?” The registrar began assembling binders on the countertop.

“Eleventh grade; she’s just turned sixteen!” Zoe started tuning out the patter, hardening herself to the unwelcome commentary she expected would be coming.

It wasn’t that there was anything obviously unwelcoming about the school itself or Nancy; it was just that it was... school. Another school, like Parker High. The school she and her friend, Amber, had attended for the past two years. The school they would have attended this year except that Amber had killed herself after the sexting scandal.

Zoe still blamed herself. She’d known about the picture early, after a laughing classmate showed it to her between periods that spring. She’d figured out who’d leaked it, not for a fact, but her intuition was good, and gone to Amber. She’d let Amber talk her out of reporting it, even though she’d known her friend’s hopes that it would just die down were misplaced. She’d waited, looking for the right opportunity to report the issue. And then Amber had ended it all, and it hadn’t mattered any more who she told... and after a day or two of shocked silence, the cretins who started it all had started laughing about it again.

Now she had a new home, and a new school, and—maybe soon—new friends. It helped that her mother was a realtor, but Zoe remained dazed at the speed with which they’d uprooted and transferred to this side of town. All because her parents wanted her to attend a good school, had heard about TRAINCO, and jumped at the opportunity to enroll her here. Parker had been a good school, Zoe sulked—it was just the idiots enrolled there. There probably were idiots just like them enrolled here.

It wasn’t like TRAINCO didn’t have a good sales pitch. Zoe paid a little more attention as Nancy started rattling off the same points the teen (and her parents) had found in their research.

“We stress a strict focus on academic discipline, physical fitness, and personal responsibility,” Nancy continued. “There’s a strict attendance policy, and a strict dress code. We’ll measure Zoe for her uniforms in a few minutes.” That was news to the teen.

“We expect our students to focus on the classes, so there are no cell phones, music players, or other personal electronics allowed on campus. We serve only wholesome food at the cafeteria—no soft drinks or junk food in the vending machines. Swimming is mandatory; it’s a valuable life skill and good exercise. If Zoe’s behind on her inoculations, we’ll provide them at the on-campus medical clinic.”

All pretty much like you’d expect, Zoe reflected. TRAINCO might be new to the school business, but they had an envious track record of providing top-tier technical skills training for big and small business. She’d done a lot of digging at the library after her parents announced this plan, wanting to know what she was in for.

Belatedly, Zoe realized Nancy was addressing her directly. “Now, young lady, most of your schedule will be taken up by required core classes, but you do have one elective this fall. What do you see on this list that interests you?”

It fairly leapt off the page at her. “Oh, newsletter and yearbook— that’s a class?” She’d fancied herself a good writer at Parker, but the newsletter had been an extracurricular activity there. Yearbook seemed like a pointless exercise in exchanging autographs and trite homilies. It brought back memories of Amber’s picture, never to be signed, and Zoe reminded herself she had planned to be unenthusiastic today. “Newsletter would be fine,” she amended, trying to project the proper image of teenage ennui.

“Well, that’s just fine!” exclaimed Nancy. “You’re all set, then.” Zoe almost rolled her eyes, imagining that she would have gotten exactly the same response if she’d chosen “cannibalism” or “underwater basket weaving”. A few clicks on a keyboard and another sheet of paper joined the growing stack on the countertop.

Nancy gestured around the end of the counter, towards a doorway in the back wall. “Now, Zoe, if you’ll come with me, we’ll get you measured for your uniforms and take your picture for your ID.” She led the way into a small room with a wall-mounted monitor and keyboard, a bare table, and what looked like a changing room. Nancy held the door for her.

“Here’s the scoop: You need to take off your clothes and leave them in the changing room, then step into the measuring silo and stand with your feet on the red outlines and your arms held out horizontally. You can leave on your underwear as long as it isn’t too loose—that’s a problem with the boys—and as long as you don’t have extra padding in your bra. Hmmm, you can either tie your hair back in a ponytail or use a cap here to hold it up. Any questions?”

Zoe eyed the setup curiously. This certainly wasn’t the cloth tape she’d unconsciously expected. “How does it work?”

“Oh, it’s all computerized.” Duh. “A scanner will circle 360 degrees around you from head to toe, measuring you precisely in all three dimensions. Your profile is mapped to a computer model, which controls our fully-automated fabrication hardware. The uniforms will actually be custom-made for you while you wait!”

The girl was impressed in spite of herself. She’d read about the introduction of similar technology in a few Levis stores in big cities, but Springfield was far from any of them—and this contraption sounded like it was a generation or two more advanced, if it worked as advertised.

Zoe latched the door behind herself and kicked off her flip-flops. One, two, three thin layers of tops came off to expose her simple bra. She scowled with dissatisfaction. “Do you record the pictures from this?” she called over the door.

“Oh no, dear, not at all,” Nancy reassured her. “There are no pictures what-so-ever”—the last word was distinctly emphasized—“the scanner just takes measurements, and we only get numbers. Even I can’t see anything. Your mother is right here to keep me honest!”

The hated bra went on top of the other clothing. Zoe didn’t know if she’d outgrown it, or the size was just wrong, or what, but it had never felt right to her. There was no sense in leaving it on and getting another bad measurement from it. She wouldn’t have worn it today if they had been able to find the box with the clothes from her dresser; stupid movers. She deftly tied her hair back with a rubber band, and then shimmied her jeans down her legs to the floor.

Not bad, Zoe decided without false modesty, looking at herself in the mirror. The girl staring back was moderately tall and carried no unnecessary weight. Her trim body was toned from moderate exercise and curved in ways she knew had boys looking at her. She felt her breasts were a perfect handful, definitely feminine but not so big they sagged or gave her problems like she’d heard of from other, more developed, acquaintances. A pair of boyshorts hugged her hips, closely enough Zoe knew she didn’t have to worry they’d throw off the scanner, and covered a pubic patch the same light blonde as the hair on her head. Those tresses fell in soft waves to just below her shoulders, when she wore it free as she preferred.

Introspection completed, Zoe walked into the scanning “silo” and stood on the red footprints in the center of the room. It appeared perfectly circular and perhaps 8 or 9 feet in diameter. The walls were mirrored with a faint gridline, making for a somewhat disconcerting experience. “I’m ready!” she called out.

A panel rose from the floor to block the entrance, making the circle complete. “Okay!” Nancy replied. “Arms out!” Zoe rapidly raised them. “Eyes closed! Remember to breathe!” A whirring sound, not unlike her mother’s flatbed scanner, started immediately behind Zoe and began circling her in a clockwise direction. “That’s good, hold still,” came the periodic encouragement as the scanner continued its slow orbit. Finally the circuit was completed and the scanner shut off. The entry panel sank with a hiss as Nancy called, “done, Zoe!”

It took almost no time to re-dress and Zoe joined the two older women in the antechamber. Nancy led them back out into the lobby, reaching her station just as the laser printer ejected a sheet of paper into the output tray. “Here we are!” she announced unnecessarily, placing the printout on the counter where all three of them could read it.

There were dozens of measurements, more than Zoe thought anybody should have to care about. She focused on familiar ones, which Nancy was reciting aloud. “Height 5 foot 7 inches; 35 inch bust, B cup; 25 inch waist, very nice; 33 inch hips.” Zoe felt the weight of her mother’s sharp glance as Becky observed her daughter’s figure with fresh eyes. “Weight, 115 pounds. There’s a scale in the floor.” That much? Zoe frowned, thinking she must have put on 5 pounds over the summer. But it didn’t look bad on her, and her parents were always reminding her to exercise in moderation and neither binge nor diet excessively. “I wish this were my chart,” Nancy summarized with a friendly smile.

“Now,” she continued, “how do you want your hair for your picture? Down, like when you came in? I have a brush here.” Nodding yes, Zoe pulled off the rubber band. Becky took charge of the brush, untangling and then teasing her daughter’s hair until it looked just right. A quick run of her fingers through the front and it felt right to Zoe, too.

“Isn’t this automated, too?” Zoe inquired. Nancy laughed, displaying a slightly battered digital point-and-shoot camera with an attached USB cable. “Never send a machine to do a woman’s job—we want people to be able to recognize you from your photograph. Now, smile for me...” Zoe obeyed and Nancy snapped a few frames in burst mode. “We do Photoshop the background and uniform,” she admitted. “Now this will take just a minute or three,” she warned before disappearing into another back room.

“Where did you get a 35-inch bust?” Becky mock-growled at her daughter. “My God, Ken will have a heart attack.” Zoe knew her father would do no such thing, but couldn’t stifle a giggle at the joke. Her mother brightened a tad. “Good, a little sparkle, finally. You’d think we were sending you off to the army, not high school.”

Soon enough, Nancy bustled back in with a large, loaded shopping bag. “Oof!” she exclaimed as she deposited it on the floor next to the counter. “Now, here we have your textbooks, your schedule, your locker assignment, a copy of the new student handbook, water bottle, and your student ID. Be sure you don’t lose it!”

Zoe fished out the latter object by the lanyard attached to it, and inspected the picture. It would pass muster, she allowed, approving of the pose. It was intriguing how natural the picture looked. Even on close inspection, the top of the blouse, jacket and tie looked totally realistic and there was no aliasing or join line between her and the earthy brown background of the picture, even around the ends of her hair. It was a little bizarre, seeing herself in an outfit she hadn’t even laid eyes on yet. The badge was perhaps an eighth of an inch thick and felt reassuringly solid. Zoe looped the lanyard over her head.

“Now, it will take a few minutes more for your uniforms, Zoe. Those, a swimsuit, and gym clothes all are included with your registration. You can buy more if you need or want them, but I don’t recommend it at this point —although you look like you’ve finished growing.” Nancy paused for a breath before continuing, “now, there are a few more things you’ll need: socks or hose; shoes; bras; you can use your own, if they comply with the dress code, or buy them here. These articles aren’t custom-made, but they are sized for your measurements. Just a reminder: flip-flops are not compliant.” She looked inquiringly at them.

“I’d like two bras,” Zoe offered diffidently, and was relieved when Becky nodded assent. “34B, 34B,” Nancy muttered as she headed into the supply room, and returned a moment later with two white bras that went into another large shopping bag.

They signed a few more forms before—finally!—Nancy glanced at her monitor and announced Zoe’s clothing was finished. She returned a minute later with several hangers in a transparent bag and several packages. “That was easy. You’re such a nice size, Zoe; the computer hardly had to work at all! Now, here are your uniform blouses”—white—“and skirts” —navy with white pinstripes—“and a uniform jacket and tie.” Both were solid navy blue. She turned to the shrink-wrapped clothing. “Here’s the swimsuit”—a navy and white patterned one-piece—“and gym clothes.” These were a couple sets of shorts and T-shirts, either white with a navy logo, or blue with white logo. They didn’t quite overflow the bag when they were added to it.

After a cheery farewell from the administrator, Zoe was trudging in her mother’s wake towards the car, burdened by the large bag and hangers. Nancy had even thrown in a pair of extra water bottles for her parents, as if the bag weren’t full enough. It was enough to make her wonder why they didn’t have an official Hyde High book bag. The front gate beeped once as she walked through it, attracting the girl’s attention. A box on the side of the gate had an illuminated green light, which went out when she resumed walking. It was a relief to reach the car.

Zoe stared out the car window as her mother chattered on the hands-free set, setting up showings. Her own phone remained stubbornly silent, as if it too mourned Amber’s absence. They lived far enough from the school to be eligible for bussing, but Zoe still was trying to get a feel for the neighborhood and local landmarks. A lot of the houses in the subdivision looked pretty much the same. She didn’t want to get lost trying to find her own house!

At first Zoe thought her mother had gotten confused and pulled up at the wrong house, where a girl about her own age was mowing the front yard. But no, her father’s car was in the driveway ahead of them. As they got out of the car and popped the trunk to collect her things, the unfamiliar brunette stopped the mower and walked over to them.

“Oh My God, another fucking Stepford child,” the girl drawled, taking in the TRAINCO/Hyde logos on the side of the bag. As if this girl should talk, Zoe thought—she was wearing a sports jersey cropped well above the midriff, a pair of ragged cutoffs so short that if they unraveled any more, they’d be a skirt, or belt... and boots. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and judging by the skin visible through the jersey mesh, she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Zoe sensed her mother was about to explode into an indignant defense, and the other girl must have seen that too. “Oh hey, I’m sorry—no offense —but I just went through their wringer too. I’m Claudia Babbitt; I live next door.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the neighboring house behind her. “Mr. Ryan asked me to cut your grass.”

Ken Ryan appeared at the front door as if summoned. “I see you’ve met Claudia,” he guessed. “Almost,” jibed Becky. “Hello, Claudia, I’m Becky Ryan and this is our daughter, Zoe.” Simultaneous “hello”s from the girls crossed as Ken hefted the bag and hangers. “Wow, any money left in the checking account?” he joked. “Why don’t you girls get acquainted while we take care of this? Claudia, there’s no rush on the yard.”

Zoe found herself stuck in a conversation she wasn’t really sure she wanted to have. Claudia clearly was no Amber, and Zoe felt unready for a friendship even if she had been. “So, Zoe,” Claudia broke the silence, “what year are you? Senior?” The blonde admitted she wasn’t, just a little unhappy that the new acquaintance apparently wasn’t in the same class.

“That blows,” Claudia commiserated. “I have one more year to get out of here, and they pull this fucking shit on us. Lucky you; you get a bonus year.” She laughed. “God, can you imagine if you were a fucking freshman? I guess your parents picked the wrong neighborhood to move to, eh?”

“We moved here just so I could go to Hyde,” Zoe shot back, angry that the sacrifice she knew her parents were making for her was being denigrated. “It’s better than a lot of places! And TRAINCO might be new to charter schools, but they have 95%+ satisfaction ratings for their technical training programs, and you know the charter school concept has been shown to be effective in a lot of different places across the US.”

Claudia looked a little more serious. “Hey, at least your parents are there for you.” She glanced about before continuing in a lower voice. “My mom skipped out, and my dad’s a truck driver. I see him maybe once or twice a month; I think he might have another woman somewhere. Don’t tell anybody, okay? The last thing I need is to get fingered as a latchkey kid and have some asshole social worker stick me in a fucking foster home.”

Zoe felt more sympathy for the girl as she imagined what she’d feel like in that position. Her manner was abrasive and her language shocking to the blonde who rarely heard her parents curse, but Claudia was interesting. Zoe realized that despite the rocky start, she was curious to learn more. “Maybe you can come over for dinner tonight after you finish the yard?” With a sly wink, Zoe added, “If your father doesn’t mind?”

Claudia rewarded her with a slow smile and a nod before turning back to the mower. “Sounds like a date, ‘Stepford Barbie’!” Zoe fumed—she so did not look like a Barbie doll! “Sure thing, ‘trailer-trash Jade’!” Claudia laughed hard enough it took her two tries to restart the mower.

September

The first day of school was chaos. It made sense to Zoe; the first day at a new school would be a bit crazy anyway, but this time Hyde High was pretty much a new school for everybody—even the returning students who’d attended the previous year. She’d read her materials cover-to-cover, and checked the important things like the dress code and code of conduct twice just to be sure. Her father had dropped her off, so she didn’t have to worry about bus delays. All of the preparation paid off as she threaded her way from the curb through the entry gates and past the harassed security personnel. Swirls of confused students and parents surrounded them, complaining of misunderstandings, lost ID cards, and the like.

Once inside, Zoe got her bearings and headed for her locker. There was an immediate sense that the environment had changed, highlighted by the consistency of the school uniforms. Like her, the other students were garbed in muted navy blue, relieved only by the white shirts and blouses and the occasional splash of color from a backpack or purse.

Zoe hadn’t realized it until she’d tried them on, but each of her blouses and the jacket had her name embroidered over the left breast, accompanied by the circular logo she guessed represented a hurricane. All of the custom pieces contained tags like “ZZ0000P0012-RZB44301-001” in them. It seemed like overkill when everybody’s name already appeared on their badges.

There were several different background colors on the ID badges, which she hadn’t figured out. There was a bit more variation in the footwear. Zoe was wearing white anklets and her blue-and-white Nikes. Athletic shoes were common, with a few loafers or flats, but everything she saw was white or blue or black.

Zoe found her locker without much difficulty. Instead of a combination wheel or padlock, there was a thick slot just above a knob. Leaving the lanyard about her neck, the teen pushed her ID into the slot and the locker popped open. There was a convenient holder for her water bottle; she utilized it and dumped her pack in the locker. She extracted her organizer and checked the time. According to the clocks on the wall, the opening assembly wouldn’t start for another 10 minutes.

It was easy to move with the flow of other students now that everybody was going in the same direction. Zoe looked around the gymnasium as she entered, trying to judge how many people were present and where to sit. She hated the thought of having to endure the uncertainty of finding her place where she didn’t really know anybody.

Finally she slid into a bleacher seat next to another girl who also wore ID with a brown background. “Hi Paige, I’m Zoe!” The uniforms made introductions easier, anyway. “Hi, Zoe Ryan,” the other girl responded. “Oh! You’re a junior too; I bet we share some classes.”

Zoe asked, “how did you know my year? Is it the badges?”

“Yup,” Paige nodded. “Red backgrounds are freshmen, green is for sophomores, brown is us juniors, seniors get yellow, and the teachers are white.” She paused a moment and added, “I don’t know if the colors will rotate years or not. I mean, why reprint them if you can just reuse them each year, right?”

The blonde was a bit dazed by the speed of the analysis and nodded absently. She returned her attention to the floor of the gymnasium, where a microphone stand stood in the center of the court. Several members of the cheer team worked the crowd, their largely white and glittering costumes standing out starkly against the blue of the audience.

One of the cheerleaders moved to the microphone and announced, “will everyone please stand for the National Anthem?” Dutifully the audience complied and “The Star Spangled Banner” began. Bored, Zoe studied the announcer, whose medium brown hair had a touch of red that didn’t look quite natural, and then focused on the cheerleader with dirty blonde tresses swaying side to side and singing enthusiastically with the music. The other cheer members started singing too, so apparently the girl had some influence.

“Who are they?” Zoe whispered to Paige.

“Ugh,” Paige nearly swallowed the expletive. “The one at the microphone is Jana Fowicki; she’s the student body president. Interesting, when you think about it... The school administration completely changes, at least half the teachers are new, we have a boatload of new transfers like you, but she’s still there. Go figure. Anyway, the hyperactive spazz next to her is my big sister, Joanne. She’s the cheer captain, senior class treasurer, yearbook editor, teacher’s pet, general ‘it’ girl...”

The tone of the recitation let Zoe know there was some bad history there somewhere. She studied the sisters a little more closely, noticing the family resemblance. Both wore their hair long—to mid-back, Joanne’s a little curlier and Paige’s a little lighter. Paige was solemn; Joanne looked like a child in a candy store—who’d already had too much sugar. Ironically, it was the younger sister who seemed to be fighting a losing battle with adolescent acne.

Zoe ventured to share her last thought about Joanne and Paige snorted as everybody resumed their seats. “Now it’s show time,” she whispered absently.

“Thank you everybody,” Jana announced, “I know it’s good to be back. And this year is going to be the best ever for Hyde High. Let’s have a big round of applause for the reason why, our new principal, Mr. Paul Edwards!” Joanne and the cheer squad jumped and screamed, while the audience offered much more restrained applause.

An immaculately groomed man in an expensive-looking suit strode to the microphone. “Thank you, Jana, and good morning everybody. It’s great to be here!” He paused for a minute to sip from the TRAINCO water bottle he was carrying, and then continued speaking.

There was no reason for it, but Zoe loathed him on sight. He had a great smile, and was using it, but it reminded her of every oily used car salesman and slimy philandering politician she’d ever seen or heard of or read about. How in the world had he gotten this job? She looked about furtively as he continued speaking, but it didn’t appear that anybody else was registering anything but approval, or boredom, or...

The sight was so unexpected, so incongruous, that Zoe did an astonished double-take. To her left, on the end of the bleacher just across the stairs and a row further back, a girl was masturbating! Could she have misinterpreted something?

Zoe frankly stared at the girl as much as she could while attempting to avoid drawing attention. Dark auburn hair about the same length as her own swayed gently as the girl rocked slowly back and forth. From her unique vantage, unobstructed by intervening bodies and with eyes at the level of the other girl’s seat, Zoe gaped as the redhead brushed her skirt further into her lap and began to tease herself delicately with a finger.

The finger stopped. Zoe flushed as she realized the other girl was looking back at her! Her face, framed by the soft curl of her hair, looked young and innocent, exactly the opposite of what Zoe read from Principal Edwards.

The girl held Zoe’s eyes with her own, and slid a finger up along her thigh again. This time, Zoe watched the finger come back just into view, pulling red panties aside, and then the flash of red was blocked by the other hand. Oh. My. God. Zoe couldn’t believe it! Both girls stared at each other, lips parted in excitement or shock, as the redhead silently worked herself.

She jerked once and tensed, then slowly freed her hands. They smoothed the uniform skirt back down to her knees, and then she blew a kiss to the still-flushed blonde. Zoe whirled away in time to hear, “...and I know you will make us proud. Once again, welcome to Lawrence Hyde Charter High School.”

Everybody scrambled to their feet as the cheerleaders bounced up and down shouting forgettable slogans. “Well, what did you think about that?” Paige asked. Apparently, and luckily for Zoe, the question was largely rhetorical. “I think they can’t run us like a business. We’re teenagers, our little brains aren’t developed yet, and our little attention spans are too stunted. Look at hyper girl, there. Conversely, I agree we have to be held accountable for our performance—I mean, remember Lenny Smith? Oh right, you wouldn’t. Well, talk about the poster child for social promotion...”

The auburn-haired angel was waiting on the stairs for Zoe, surrounded by a crowd of other students talking to her or trying to get her attention. Clearly, she was the center of gravity of this section of the bleachers. Zoe envied her the popularity, if not her apparent lack of inhibition. A yellow senior ID hung from the girl’s neck. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” she inquired. Zoe sensed as much as heard the surrounding silence as listeners concentrated on what she said. “I’d love to see you again, Zoe.” With that, she swept down the stairs, accompanied by her entourage.

Paige punched Zoe in the shoulder. “Hey! Zoe! When did you meet her?”

Zoe looked blank. “Who?”

“Her, who. Mariah. Mariah Haskell.” Seeing Zoe’s clueless expression, Paige sighed, dragged her new-found friend along by the arm, and fell effortlessly into lecture mode. “Mariah Haskell, the Queen of Hyde High. Center of the social circuit. Mover and shaker. Party girl extraordinaire. Her mother’s on the town council, one of the primary backers of this charter school concept. Some people say TRAINCO’s here ‘cause Mariah is. Anyway, a conversation with Mariah’s like a golden ticket to popularity. As long as you don’t mind high-maintenance toadies. Really, you’ve never met her before?”

Zoe shook her head. “Nope. I don’t need any high-maintenance toadies. I can make my own friends.” And not the kind who jill off in the middle of an assembly, it went without saying.

Pleasingly, it developed that Paige’s locker was not far from her own. “Hey, what’s your next class? I have swimming.”

Paige looked disappointed. “No, I took that last year. Regular PE for me until it gets colder, unless you want to trade?”

“Not a chance. I’d rather laze around at the pool than play team sports any day. I’ll see you later then, Paige.” The two girls waved at each other and headed in separate directions.

Zoe knew the pool was close by the gymnasium, but she seemed to have gotten turned around and the attempted shortcut didn’t work out. She headed down a short, deserted maintenance hallway and was about to open the door at the end when she heard voices on the other side.

“Miss Haskell, may I have a word with you?” Zoe froze at Principal Edwards’ voice, and then guiltily moved closer to the door to eavesdrop. “Yes, Principal Edwards?” That was Mariah’s voice.

“What do you think you were doing this morning?” The principal’s tone was curt and abrupt, but the volume was low enough Zoe had to listen carefully to understand him.

“You mean, listening to the assembly?” Mariah asked.

“No, I mean masturbating during assembly! That is totally unacceptable behavior, especially coming from you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She giggled? Zoe could almost believe it, coming from Mariah. “I thought nobody saw me.”

The conversation took a surprising turn at that point. “You know damn well somebody saw you. That girl across from you watched everything—I could see the look on her face from center court!”

“Her?” Mariah’s tone was condescending. “She won’t say anything—like a deer in headlights!”

“You don’t know that.” Something or someone hit the door, causing Zoe to jump. “The point is to—not—get—caught. You are supposed to be mature enough to have a modicum of self control. I expect more from you; I am sure your mother expects more from you. Are we clear on this?”

Mariah sounded almost chastised and replied with a simple, “yes, sir. I understand.”

“Good. Then there’s no reason to bring this up again. Get back to class.” The conversation ended, Principal Edwards opened the door, only to encounter the proverbial deer in headlights herself.

A frisson of fear ran down Zoe’s spine, and she grabbed at the first thought that came to mind. “I’m sorry, sir! I was running to get to swim class and didn’t realize you were there!” She didn’t have to fake the panting. Without waiting for a response, she brushed between the pair and bolted down the cross passage. She didn’t know which way it led, and at the moment didn’t care.

Zoe risked a glance back as she turned the corner—the Principal was still watching her, his gaze coolly speculative.

Her heart was still pounding when she arrived at the pool shower room, 5 minutes late. What was wrong with that man? The puzzled teen couldn’t stop worrying at the question, but she forced it aside for the moment and looked around.

The last of her classmates was just disappearing through the open doorway on the far wall that led to the pool itself, leaving the tardy blonde alone for the moment. The concept was clear enough, even if Zoe hadn’t reviewed the instructions from her registration packet that morning. She found an open locker near the corner of the room and started undressing, hanging her uniform neatly inside it. When Zoe was naked except for her ID on its lanyard, she pulled on her blue and white suit. It fit like a second skin, but was stretchy enough that it wasn’t that difficult to get into. The blonde walked over to the shower area and rinsed off briefly, thankful the water was warm. It wasn’t like she’d actually had a chance to get dirty, but she appreciated the consideration since others would be swimming in the same water. Grabbing a towel from the stack near the door, Zoe continued on to the pool.

It truly was the architectural wonder of the school. An indoor Olympic-sized pool, built on the location of the old administration parking lot, was a marvel for any high school, let alone one in Springfield. And TRAINCO had designed, planned, and constructed it in a single summer. It even smelled new to Zoe.

All of the other students were in the water already, boys and girls on opposite sides of the pool. “So nice you could join us, Miss Ryan,” the hard-faced woman greeted her.

“I’m sorry, I got lost,” Zoe apologized, “but it won’t happen again.” Was she going to get off on the wrong foot with every adult she met today? Without prompting, she dumped her towel near the wall and hung her ID on an unused hook with the others, then jumped in the pool.

“Well, then,” the woman said, apparently appeased, “for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Coach Gold. My task is to ensure you can go near water without drowning yourselves or disgracing me. Now that we’re all here, it appears you all know at least the very rudimentary basics. Let’s see each of you do a lap of free-style, so we can see what I have to work with.”

By the time the coach released them, Zoe felt like she’d been doing anything but laze around. The woman wasn’t easy to satisfy, and actual swimming, as opposed to just floating around goofing off, took a lot more energy than Zoe remembered. The girls clambered out of the pool, retrieving their towels and badges, and casting covert looks at the boys doing the same thing on the opposite wall.

Zoe felt good about herself and the way the suit fit her body; it was pretty modest, even if the scoop in back was fairly low. Consequently she felt no need to cover herself completely with the towel, nor any desire to flaunt herself the way one or two of the other girls did. On the other hand, some of the boys were pretty good-looking and their Speedo-style briefs were a lot more revealing than the oversized baggy shorts in fashion.

The blonde was a trifle uncomfortable with the communal showering, but she focused on getting through it as quickly as possible so she wouldn’t be late for her next class. Some of the other girls showed some mild interest in striking up an acquaintance but respected her reserve. Whatever the material of her suit was, Zoe found that it was practically dry by the time she made it back to her locker to collect her French textbook.

She’d been looking forward to it all day, and finally last period—Zoe’s cherished newsletter/yearbook course—had arrived. By all appearances, she’d even managed to make it to the correct classroom on time!

Zoe quietly slipped in the door at the back of the room. She recognized Joanne Ward, still in cheer uniform, sitting on a desk at the front of the room, gossiping with a few other girls. There didn’t appear to be a teacher present yet. Definitely feeling like an outsider, Zoe sunk into a desk halfway up and settled in, chin propped on hands, to listen quietly.

“I mean, how was I like, to know? She’s like, an ice queen.” Joanne gestured broadly with both arms. “She talked for ever, dissecting feelings he might have for a relationship that like, might exist, like a frog in biology, and so didn’t do a thing! Oh My God! Well, Kevin was like, so hot in that shirt that I just had to feel it. And then, he’s like, ‘if you like it so much, you should wear it,’ and I’m like, ‘I already have a shirt,’ and he, like, just takes it off and tells me, ‘this one’s better’. He is like, one ripped boy, you know?”

Her audience nodded in agreement while the cheerleader sighed and drew another breath. “So then, I’m like, ‘turn around,’ and I take off my shirt and put on Kevin’s, and Paige is like, ‘you slut,’ and screaming and stuff. I mean, I still had my bra on, like my swimsuit covers less than that. So, anyway, Kevin and I like hooked up a few times but she’s still like I stole him or something. As if he’d waste any time on a zit-face like her.” With an air of dispensing hard-won advice, Joanne added, “don’t have a younger sister—it’s like, too much drama.”

Everybody was digesting that when one of the other girls piped up, “you know who’s really a slut?” Predictably, all of the others wanted to know. “Claudia Babbitt! She is such a slut, did you see her?” There was babble as several of the girls talked over one another, and Zoe leaned forward with interest. She’d formed a tentative friendship with her prickly neighbor and, while Claudia certainly had a unique approach to clothing, “slut” wasn’t a word Zoe would have chosen.

“She wore a black bra!” gasped a contributor. “I heard all about it from Yelena, who was there the whole time. You could totally see it the whole time! The security dudes were so mad, but they couldn’t do anything about it.” Zoe nodded knowingly herself, appreciating the loophole—the dress code required girls to wear brassieres, and had an absurd number of specifications and prohibitions regarding them, but neglected to say anything about color. That probably would change, quickly, but she’d have to remember to give “trailer-trash Jade” chops for the stunt.

The burst of a camera flash beside her startled Zoe so badly that her chin fell off its perch and she barely stopped herself from bashing it on the desktop. The group at the front of the room, attracted by her muffled shriek, belatedly noticed her while she in turn studied her ambusher.

He was attractive, if no stud, and a junior like herself, according to his badge. Zoe could imagine herself with him, with very little effort. He smiled at her over the top of his camera. Oh God, she thought, I must look like a loser; my hair is still a total mess from swimming. “It’s for your driver’s license picture,” he deadpanned. “The next one will be better.”

Zoe turned her head away, embarrassed and wishing he would leave. “Is this really necessary?” she asked, trying to keep it from sounding like a whine. “Yeah, Dean, like, what’s up with this?” chimed in Joanne.

He looked over at the cheerleader. “Well, Joanne, it’s like, this is Zoe Ryan, and she’s like, taking newsletter/yearbook, and like, I so need a headshot for her byline, you know?” Zoe struggled to keep a straight face as the sarcasm seemed to pass right by the other girl.

“Oh, yeah, like you’re that new girl, right?” Joanne seemed pleased to have Zoe pigeonholed. “But, like, you haven’t even written anything yet. You do, like, you know, write—right?”

Zoe fought to maintain her equilibrium, determined not to burn any bridges on her first day. But it was so hard—this was an editor?! “I write very well; I’m planning on majoring in journalism, in college.” That came out more stiffly than she’d planned, and some of the others rolled their eyes.

“Hey babe, what’s happening? You wanna ditch and hook up with some real food?” called a new arrival. He was tall, obviously athletic, and apparently self-assured. This would be the infamous Kevin, Zoe guessed. She was able to verify that a moment later when he got close enough for her to read his name on the jacket. He pulled Joanne close for a kiss and then released her.

“Hey, new girl,” Kevin addressed Zoe. Could nobody in this misbegotten bunch of idiots read? Zoe wondered; her name was written all over her. “Hi, Zoe Ryan,” she offered.

“Zoe’s like, going to write, or something,” Joanne clarified, “but she hasn’t, yet. She’s like, new.”

Kevin looked down his nose at her, literally and figuratively. “Don’t sound like much of an addition to me. Save your film, dude.”

“Hey, back off, Kevin!” Dean warned him, surprising Zoe. Kevin looked surprised too, and then his expression turned mulish.

Zoe sensed things could get tense and seized on a way to diffuse the situation. “Um, Joanne,” she said, pointing, “is that spaghetti sauce on the back of your skirt? It might stain.”

The result surpassed her expectations. Joanne screamed like she was on fire, and brushed frantically at her cheer costume without finding anything. There was nothing to find, of course. Still panicking, the senior bolted from the room, towing Kevin helplessly behind her, babbling about changing and spot remover.

Dean and Zoe exchanged looks of mutual appreciation in the bemused moment of silence that followed. “She mostly sticks to the yearbook, you know— it’s nearly all about arranging pictures,” he explained. As if it pained him but he was trying to be fair, Dean added, “and she actually is more intelligent than she sounds. Mostly.”

The members of Joanne’s late coterie appeared to be deciding if they should take exception to his characterization, when the teacher finally arrived. Like the other teachers Zoe had met, Ms. Petersen was professionally dressed, wearing a double-breasted jacket over a blouse and dark slacks. Her TRAINCO identification hung from an attractive necklace, a definite upgrade from the utilitarian lanyard in Zoe’s opinion.

“Was that Joanne I heard in the hall?” the teacher queried, as students tumbled into chairs. “Do you think she’s coming back?” This time the responses were more tentative, but negative.

She sighed. “Well, then. I recognize most of you lot from last year, welcome back.” She glanced down at the papers in her hand, and looked up. “And welcome to you, Zoe, we’re glad to have you join us. In fact, you’re just what we need; I’ll get to that in a minute.”

Ms. Petersen hitched herself onto the edge of the teacher’s desk, and cycled the top page of her notes to the bottom of the stack. “I’m very excited by the opportunity we have this year. I attended several workshops over the summer and TRAINCO is very interested in helping us take both the yearbook and newsletter up several notches from what we were able to do previously. The newsletter, in particular, is going to be about more than the week’s lunch menu and music video reviews. Additionally, Hyde is the first charter school in this area, and here we are—at the first day of the first month of the first year of this transition!” She paused to make sure her students were following her.

“Now, Principal Edwards has discussed this concept with me several times, and I think it’s a great one. He thinks we should do a series of articles in the newsletter about the transition, and the highlights will be collected and reprinted in a special section in the yearbook! Joanne isn’t here to speak up for herself”—several people giggled—“but Principal Edwards has assured me that we will have complete editorial control over what we publish.”

“Here’s where you come in, Zoe.” Zoe sat up attentively. It sounded like a dream project, but she’d resigned herself to seeing the returning contributors snap up the best pieces of it. “We’d like a fresh viewpoint, one that sees Hyde High the way it is now, without being colored by memories of the past few years. You’d be perfect for that. And, I might add, both Mr. Edwards and myself are very impressed by the samples of your work we’ve seen. However, this assignment also will give you an opportunity to improve your researching and interviewing skills.”

Zoe was impressed, herself. What work? From Parker High? What piece might it have been, and how had they gotten it? Conscious she was momentarily the center of attention, Zoe tried to maintain an air of calm, self-effacing modesty. Dean looked frankly admiring, but several of the girls looked a touch hostile—not that she blamed them.

“Don’t worry, ladies, it’s going to be equally important to illustrate the changes we’re seeing this year, and how they’re benefitting the students. I promise there will be plenty of work for everyone!” Everybody loosened up a bit. “Now, without Joanne, we can’t really plan anything on the editorial side...” Ms. Petersen continued.

“...without like, redoing it all,” Dean muttered under his breath.

“...so I want you to think about short pieces we can whip into shape quickly—Friday isn’t very far away! Try to have a few proposals for tomorrow, and we’ll sort through them. Well, enough for your first day, then!” She made shooing motions at her students, “go, be free! Enjoy the day!”

As the others filed out, Zoe walked to the front. She really wanted to know what they’d read. “Ms. Petersen—”

“Please, call me Hannah,” the teacher sighed. “I appreciate professionalism, Zoe, but sometimes formality can be taken a bit too far; and I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other this year.”

Zoe nodded, and shyly asked, “Hannah, I was just curious... You said you’d read something of mine, and I was just wondering...”

“Oh, of course,” Hannah responded. She pulled a sheet and handed it to the teen, saying, “perhaps it’s not my place to say so, Zoe, but I’m very proud of you—and you have my sympathy.”

She looked down at a photocopy of a newspaper clipping. “Love’s Labor’s Lost/A Tragedy in Two Megapixels, by Zoe Ryan.” It was the piece she had written about Amber, trying to work through her grief and guilt. She’d never realized it had gotten picked up by a newspaper. Zoe discovered her emotional wounds were still raw, more than she had believed, and handed back the clipping. “Thanks.”

Dean didn’t let her escape. “I told you I needed a byline thumbnail shot. It’ll just take a moment.” Zoe’s hand shot unconsciously to her hair again.

“Have you no sensibility?” Hannah asked him. “Give the girl a minute. Here, Zoe, I have a brush in my purse you can borrow.”

Somewhat relieved, Zoe pulled off the hair band and started teasing out her ponytail. She’d just left it wet after swimming and it really had dried a mess. A few dozen strokes of the brush made a huge difference. Hannah helpfully provided a pocket mirror so she could check her work.

Dean took a few shots, asking Zoe to look solemn, or contemplative, and finally got her laughing when he commanded, “now, like, say cheese!” Somehow, the ending bell was ringing by the time they finished.

Zoe was still smiling, looking over her shoulder at Dean, when she exited the classroom and nearly bounced off Mariah in the hallway. It was an unsettling juxtaposition of their encounter earlier in the day.

“Why, Zoe,” Mariah quipped, “weren’t you watching where I was going?” The blonde’s blush and confusion were priceless, and Mariah savored them before Zoe mumbled something and took off rapidly down the hall. She was cute, Mariah decided, and such an easy mark for teasing.

Mariah looked through the door at Dean as he stowed something in his book bag, and mentally undressed him. He was cute too, actually more to her taste than those athletes with their big bodies and small brains. She’d read somewhere that steroids negatively affected the sexual organs, the same as she’d read that the brain was a person’s most erogenous spot.

Yes, she decided, it would be worth her time to cultivate Dean. He seemed... creative. But he’d be a long-term project, and she was tired of behaving. It had been a long time since the morning assembly.

Mariah worked her way across campus to the administration building, acknowledging greetings from acquaintances and deftly deflecting invitations from friends, and sauntered into the Principal’s office. Finally, the one place on campus with no security cameras! With a heartfelt sigh, the teen reached beneath her skirt and eased a finger past her panties and into her moist slit.

Paul strode across the office, slamming the door closed before backhanding her across the face. “I’ve told you not to do that in public!”

She was stunned that he’d dared to touch her. No boy had ever treated her like that! Her cheek stung from the slap, but Mariah realized she was wetter than she had been a moment before. Men wanted the same things as boys, didn’t they?

Aroused, Mariah dropped to her knees and reached for Paul’s zipper. As she expected, the hypocrite made no move to stop her while she fished his hardening cock out of his clothing and enveloped it in her mouth.

She took justifiable pride in her technique, alternating licks to the glans with sucking, then running her teeth lightly down his length as she took his tool all the way into her throat. He came quickly, pumping his sticky seed into Mariah’s mouth while she milked him with one hand.

The conversation resumed as Paul zipped himself up and Mariah cleaned the edge of her mouth with a finger. “We can’t risk this sort of thing here, Mariah. You know exposure would be very bad for all of us.”

Mariah pouted. “This from the genius that assigns a reporter to investigate himself?”

“What?” She’d managed to startle him.

“Zoe—the new girl. You know, from this morning? I just ran into her outside Ms. Petersen’s room.”

“Oh, her. Perfect, don’t you think?” Paul warmed up as he considered it. “You said it yourself, she won’t say anything. She didn’t say anything at the last school. We can spoon-feed her anything we want. There’s nothing like a little good publicity, especially when it comes from an ‘independent’ source.”

“You aren’t worried she’ll find anything?” Mariah asked doubtfully.

Paul laughed softly. “Not a chance. She’s new, doesn’t know anybody. I’ve seen her records—she’s a mouse.” He paused, and then continued, “if she gets lucky, we’ll sit on her.”

“I’m not so sure...” Mariah began, but he cut her off.

“I am. She’ll be attending your little parties soon enough. Now get out of here and remember—keep it clean while you’re on campus. I mean it!”

Zoe held Claudia’s backpack and jacket on her lap while the older girl squirmed on the school bus bench beside her.

“This fucking dress code is going to drive me crazy,” the senior declared. Somehow she managed to remove the (black) bra and extract it from underneath the blouse. “Their space-age scientifically fitted bra is a little too snug for the ring,” Claudia complained, flicking it casually through the blouse.

Zoe tore away her gaze. “I thought the bras only came in white.”

Claudia laughed. “They do—I dyed it myself. That was a bitch of a job. Didn’t you see the posting they had up by lunchtime? ‘Unauthorized alterations of clothing are not compliant with the Hyde High dress code.’ " She studied the bra. “Well, I guess I’m not going to wear this again. They flat-ass told me not to come back with it, and it’s too uncomfortable to wear if I don’t have to. It was worth the money to screw with those fuckers’ minds, though—I swear I thought one guy was going to have a fucking heart attack.”

She eyed the blonde as she re-took possession of her jacket and bag. “Hey, Barbie, what size do you wear? 34B? This is yours if you want it.”

Privately, Zoe thought the bras were very comfortable, better than anything she’d owned previously. They were completely seamless, feather light, and very soft on the skin. She’d tried jumping up and down at home, and they seemed to provide good support. “I could pay you for it,” she offered, thinking Claudia might need the money.

“Thanks, but consider it a fashion victim CARE package,” Claudia demurred, and flipped the undergarment to her. “Now, tell me about what you did while I was fighting the oppressive administration.”

“Well, you will not believe what happened at the assembly!” Zoe’s voice lowered to just above a whisper, inaudible except to her neighbor. “You know Mariah Haskell?”

Claudia snorted. “Everybody knows Mariah. I know she has her nose up the ass of her mother and every fucking teacher in the joint. And a lot of students have their noses up her ass, just because her mom’s a big wheel. Big party girl. Yeah, I know her. So?”

“Well, she was jilling off at the assembly, I saw it!”

“You’re shitting me, right?” Zoe shook her head. “Rumor has it that girl has been around the block with more than a few boys, but that’s out there, even for her. I mean, the thought police peed themselves because I wore a fucking black bra, for chrissakes. They’d execute her.”

“That’s just it!” Zoe hissed. “I kind of overheard them later, Mariah and Principal Edwards. He was chewing her out, but get this—he was pissed because she got caught, not because she did it in the first place! I think there’s something wrong with him.”

It was Claudia’s turn to shake her head. “I think there’s something wrong with you, Zoe. No fucking way did that happen. You actually saw this?”

“Well, not exactly. I was in the hall, and they were on the other side of the door. But I could hear them, I swear!”

Claudia remained unconvinced. “I think something got lost in the translation. Principal Edwards acts like he has a stick up his ass, and the whole fucking town’s watching this place. If Mariah actually did that, I’d be fucking furious whether somebody saw her or not. Now c’mon, that was your entire day? Weren’t there any boys?”

Zoe hated to let the point drop, but she couldn’t explain or describe what her intuition was telling her. Perhaps she had misheard the conversation. “I did get this big assignment for the newsletter. And there was this boy, Dean Killian ...” She continued her story as the two disembarked from the bus and walked down the block to their houses.

They stopped in front of Claudia’s house. “Zoe,” advised the older girl, “you have your work cut out for you. That newsletter shit is idiotic, but I get that you like to write. But Dean? You can’t advertise in this”— she did a mock curtsy, indicating their uniforms—“and you are way too passive. You’re going to have to step up your game if you want to hook up with him!”

Zoe sputtered denials. “I don’t want to hook up with anybody! We’re just in the same class and he seems nice. And I want him to like me for who I am, not some made-up front.”

“It’s your life, Barbie,” Claudia warned, unlocking her door. “There are 300 channels on the TV—are you the one he’s going to watch?”