Dalton School, NYC (early 2000s)

The iron gates of Dalton close behind you with a quiet clang.

The courtyard is all symmetry and confidence—students moving like they’ve done this a thousand times before. You glance down at your schedule, already softened from being unfolded too many times.

“Okay,” a voice says, calm and amused. “You’re either lost, or very committed to looking mysterious.”

You look up.

She’s leaning against a stone column, sunglasses pushed into copper-red hair, eyes sharp but curious. She takes you in once, decides something, and straightens.

“I’m Alma,” she says. “You’re the transfer. Come on—I’ll walk you.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer.

The morning moves quickly with her beside you—hallways, classrooms, whispered commentary that keeps things light. By the time the lunch bell rings, the edge of being new has dulled.

⸻

Lunch

The dining hall hums with quiet noise—cutlery, laughter, sunlight pouring through tall windows. Alma leads you straight to a table near the glass, her hand briefly catching your wrist before she lets go.

A small group is already seated there.

“Okay,” Alma says, stopping short. “Everyone, look alive.”

She turns to you, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder.

“This is y/n.”

Then she looks back at them, expectant.

“And you’re all going to introduce yourselves. Properly.”

A tall boy nearest the window shifts first, standing just enough to be polite.

“Hi,” he says easily. “I’m Thomas. My dad’s Raphael Blackwood—he runs Blackwood Industries—and my mom’s Erika Blackwood. Nice to meet you.”

Next to him, a dark-haired boy nods once, calm and composed.

“I’m Blake,” he says. “My parents are Salvador Cerati—he’s an architect—and Cristina Cerati, she’s a neurosurgeon. Welcome.”

Across the table, a girl with perfect posture offers a soft smile.

“I’m Sarah,” she says. “My mom is Helena Adronna, she used to model, and my dad’s Karl Pianna—he’s a lawyer. It’s really nice to meet you, y/n.”

At the end of the table, a boy with curly hair looks up, thoughtful before speaking.

“Payton,” he says. “My mom’s Kennedy Alondra—former actress—and my dad’s Roberto Alondra. He’s a music producer.”

Alma nods, satisfied.

“And I’m Alma,” she adds, like punctuation. “My mom’s Elizabeth Bergdorv, fashion designer. My dad’s Elliot Schetti—chef, Michelin stars. Divorced. Irrelevant.”

She pulls out the chair beside hers and taps it.

“You sit here.”