Revived

“They’re older than dinosaurs, you know.”



I move my eyes from the sharks to the man, smile politely, and then look back at the tank. I can see in my peripheral vision that the man’s eyes are back on the water, too.



“Amazing creatures,” he adds with a hint of a disarming lisp. I feel free to answer back.



“I like the sea turtles better,” I say, dreamlike, as I watch one swim by. My face is lit up by the shimmering sea.



“Hmm,” the man murmurs. “You’re right…. They’re quite spectacular, too.”



The man and I are two of maybe five people in a tunnel cutting through the aquarium itself. We are under the ocean, or at least a man-made version of it. It is sedative and beautiful: a claustrophobic’s hell on earth. For a blink, I wonder what would happen if the glass overhead sprung a leak. I imagine drowning. Again.



“Is school out today?” the man asks evenly.



“No,” I say. “We just moved here. I start school tomorrow.”



“Moves can be difficult,” says the man in a quiet, soothing voice.



“Mm-hmm,” I say.



“What grade are you in?”



“Tenth.”



“Ah, high school,” the man says softly as another shark passes. “Well, good luck settling in.”



I wait a beat, enjoying the patterns of the water reflecting across my face, then answer: “Thanks. Do you have any tips about the area?”



“Who are you talking to?” Cassie asks from my left side. Startled, I peel my eyes from the underwater world and glance at her. Then I look right, to where the man had been standing. There’s no sign of him. Confused, I look back at Cassie.



“I was talking to some dude, and then he disappeared,” I say.



“What did he look like?” Cassie asks automatically. It’s a question I’m used to hearing. Mason and Cassie are always trying to teach me life lessons, like how to be a keen observer. Normally, I’m excellent at this game, but when I think of the man, only the word average comes to my mind. I try to remember his hair color or what his clothes looked like. I try to picture whether he wore a hat or distinctive shoes. Anything.



“I don’t remember,” I say honestly.



Cassie looks deep into my eyes for a moment, probably expecting the usual list of colors and textures and mannerisms. Finally, when she realizes that I’m not going to say more, she tugs at my arm.



“Mason’s waiting. Let’s go.”



On the way to the car, I remember something about the man: his barely distinguishable lisp when saying certain things, like the word creatures. Excitedly, I look over at Cassie, wanting to tell her about it.



But like usual, she’s on the phone.



five



Omaha Victory High School is brand-new and modern, sharp angles and manicured grounds, high-tech and functional. School starts at 7:45, but Mason, Cassie, and I arrive at 7:00 to check in and pick up my class schedule and locker assignment. We follow signs through the new-smelling and nearly empty corridors. A surprisingly young-looking, dark-haired woman in jeans and a blazer is waiting for us at the reception area.



“I’m Vice Principal Erin Waverly,” the woman says, hand outstretched.



“Mason West,” Mason says with a smile, shaking Ms. Waverly’s hand.



“I’m Cassie West,” Cassie says. “So nice to meet you.” Her voice is sugary sweet like a doughnut this morning.



“And this must be Daisy,” Ms. Waverly says, looking at me with a friendly smile. “Welcome to Victory.”



“Thanks,” I say.



We follow Ms. Waverly back to her office. Mason, Cassie, and I sit on a small couch across from Ms. Waverly’s desk while she reviews my real but slightly altered birth certificate, government-manufactured school transcripts, forged yet accurate immunization records, and totally falsified proof of residence.



“You were in honors classes at your last school,” Ms. Waverly observes before setting aside the transcript.



“Yes,” I say.



“She’s a little smarty-pants,” Cassie teases as she smoothes back my hair.



“Mom!” I protest quietly, rolling my eyes at her and feigning embarrassment.



“I can see that Daisy’s a good student,” Ms. Waverly says to Cassie. “Unfortunately, we’ve got a larger than usual sophomore class this year due to some renovations at one of the magnet schools, and our honors classes are full.”



Mason shifts in his seat. “But can’t you make room for one more?” he asks.



Ms. Waverly holds up a hand. “Before you get too concerned, I think I have a solution.”



“Oh?” Mason asks.



“Yes. I think based on Daisy’s test scores, she’ll keep up fine in junior math, science, and English.”



I get a funny feeling in my stomach: a tinge of nervousness. Victory is grades nine through twelve, so I’m already starting high school a year after everyone else my age; now I’m about to be thrust into junior classes, too? But at the same time, it’s better than the regular sophomore curriculum.



That’s the equivalent of being held back.



Everyone agrees to the compromise, and soon enough, we leave the office, all smiles and optimism. I part ways with Mason and Cassie at the main doors. When they’re gone, I set off for my assigned locker in the math wing, navigating multiplying students as I go. A professional new girl, I check out what kids are wearing and note that my hip-length red T-shirt and faded skinny jeans were the right choice this morning.



Like a chameleon, I blend in.



“Sweet TOMS,” a voice says, presumably to me. I step back from my locker to investigate. A pretty girl a few doors down is pointing at my silver glitter slip-ons.



“Thanks,” I say, wiggling my toes inside the canvas shoes. Thoughts of birthday party invitations fly into my brain, and I decide to try to keep the conversation going. “I like your hair.”



The girl runs a hand through her two-toned tresses—golden blond on top and jet black underneath—and smiles with her whole face, from her Hollywood chin to her dark brown eyes. She’s wearing a turquoise sundress and low cowboy boots, and I’m positive she has to be the most popular girl in school. Everything about her is cool.



“Thanks,” she said. “My mom hates it.”



“My mom hates these shoes,” I say, shrugging, which is mostly true. Cassie doesn’t like anything remotely flashy or attention-getting.



The girl laughs.



“I’m Audrey McKean,” she says.



“Daisy West.” I smile.



“You must be new; I know everyone.”



Yep, she’s popular.



“Today’s my first day,” I say. “We just moved here from Michigan.” Another student approaches one of the lockers between mine and Audrey’s, blocking our view of each other. Audrey peeks around him and makes a silly face at me, then slams her locker door and moves around the guy.



“So, what’s your first class?” she asks.



“English,” I say. “With Mr. Jefferson?”



“You’re a junior?” she asks.



“Sophomore,” I say.



“No way.”



I raise my eyebrows in question.



“You look older,” she explains. “You must be a huge nerd.”