They were talking about her before the bell even rang. Lilly Bainbridge. Back from Juniper Hall Asylum.

You didn’t believe it until you walked into class and saw her. Same pale face, same messy hair, same faraway look that made people uncomfortable if they stared too long. She was sitting by the window.

And of course, the seat next to her was empty.

You were heading toward your usual spot when Patty leaned across her desk, her voice dripping with that mean-girl sweetness she was famous for. “You should do it,” Patty said loud enough for a handful of heads to swivel. “Bet she chickens out on the first day.”

You rolled your eyes and dropped your bag by the desk. “How much?”

“Ten dollars,” Patty offered, like a starting bid.

“What, you think I’m cheap?” you shot back without flair. “No. Thirty.”

Patty’s eyes narrowed. “Fifteen?” she suggested, like she was being generous.

“Twenty,” you said flat.

“Ugh, fine,” Patty snapped, folding her arms like she’d just won some small mercy.

They all leaned in, counting the money in their heads. Margie kept her mouth shut and folded her nails into the palm of her hand. You looked at Lilly. She was at the window, hands busy with a pencil, not even pretending to care about the whole circus. That was why you picked the seat. It would piss them off, and that felt honest.

You slid into the empty chair. The room made a sound like someone opening a lid. Lilly glanced up exactly once and went back to doodling. You said, “Hi,” because hi was the simplest way not to give them a show.

She said, “Hi.”