Revived (Cat Patrick)

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