Revilsa

  The dress is too stiff.

  It scratches my skin, pinching at my shoulders when I move. The stockings are worse. They make my legs feel like sausages stuffed in a net. I shift in my seat, but the ribbons tied at the ends of my braids yank at my scalp, so I stop moving altogether.

  I stare at my reflection in the hallway mirror. It doesn’t look like me. It looks like a doll someone dressed up and forgot to put away.

  Behind me, Mother nods in approval. “Much better. You look like a proper young dy now.”

  Her lipstick is red today. Her nails match. She leans down, brushing imaginary dust from my sleeve, and I catch the smell of expensive perfume. It reminds me of the time I accidentally walked into the wrong room at the orphanage—Grandma Rose's room. The pce smelt like lotion. The chairs too fancy.

  I felt out of pce there. Just like I do now.

  Father walks in, sipping coffee from a mug too small for his hands. He sees me and smiles. “Well now, look at you! All dressed up for the big day, huh?”

  I don’t answer.

  His smile doesn’t die out. “Nervous?”

  I shake my head.

  Mother sighs, pcing her hands on my shoulders. “She’ll be fine. It’s only school.”

  Only school.

  Only a whole building of strangers.

  Only an entire day of pretending to be something I’m not.

  Father kneels beside me, his voice quieter now. “You got this. Just be yourself, alright?”

  I don’t look at him. I keep staring at the mirror.

  Because who is me?

  I don't know.

  I don’t recognize the girl in the mirror.

  I don’t recognize the girl in the car window either.

  The ride to school is quiet.

  Before I know it, the school building looms ahead. The doors swallow me whole.

  The cssroom smells like socks and old gum.

  My seat is near the window, but there’s nothing interesting outside. Just the parking lot and the side of another building. I don’t talk to the kids next to me. They don’t talk to me either.

  The teacher gives us a writing prompt: What’s something you love?

  I stare at my paper.

  Vortex.

  I write the name before I can stop myself. I look at it for a long time. The letters don’t feel right. They feel like something from another world. Another life.

  I erase it.

  The other kids are writing about their pets, their favorite toys, their moms and dads.

  I stare at my bnk page.

  The teacher walks by, peeking over my shoulder. “Need help, dear?”

  I shake my head.

  She doesn’t push. Just walks away.

  The longer I sit there, the more I think. About the orphanage. About Cherry. About Klev’s dumb stories. About Zett.

  Zett.

  I wonder where he is right now. I wonder if he’s okay. I wonder if he even noticed I left.

  Before I know it, my vision is blurry. My throat feels constricted. I sniff, rubbing at my face, but the tears come anyway, hot and embarrassing.

  The teacher crouches beside me. “Sweetheart, are you alright?”

  I shake my head again.

  She helps me up, leading me outside.

  The hallway is bright. Quiet.

  The teacher kneels in front of me, her voice soft. “Do you want to talk?”

  I shake my head.

  She doesn’t say anything else. Just stays there, waiting.

  I stare at the floor, my hands clenched in my p. My dress is still annoying. My braids still hurt. Everything still feels wrong.

  I close my eyes.

  I picture the orphanage. I picture Klev whittling a wooden figure, Cherry grumbling about chores, Zett running across the grass.

  I picture Vortex.

  For a moment, I can almost hear them.

  Then the school bell rings, loud and deafening.

  The moment is gone.

  I open my eyes, and I’m still here.

  No one cares about the girl left behind.