Move you little monkey clones. Sidewalks aren't for zoo exhibits. The senior bully cut them off on the school sidewalk, shoulder blocking the path, knuckles white, breath hot with cafeteria grease as he laughed. Two for one charity case, he added, dragging the insult like a stain. The crowd hummed, phones raised, waiting for tears.

A fist brushed Aaliyah's cheek. Testing. She tasted iron and kept her eyes down, counting breaths she'd practiced. a thousand times. The boy leaned closer, convinced their silence was fear. He had no idea he was inches from the only two students who could end him in under 3 seconds.

The bus hissed to a stop in front of Westfield High School. Amara Washington stood first, her backpack gripped tight against her chest. She nudged Diana, who pulled out her earbuds with a sigh. "Let's just get this over with," Amara whispered. The twins stepped off the bus together.

The morning sun hit the brick building, making it look almost friendly. "Almost." But Amara noticed everything else. the stairs that followed them. The whispers that started the moment their feet touched the pavement. The way conversations stopped mid-sentence.

Ayana lifted her chin, eyes forward. "Don't look at them," she muttered through a tight smile. "They're just curious." But Amara knew better. This wasn't curiosity.

This was something else entirely. They walked side by side toward the entrance, perfectly in sync despite the weight pressing down on their shoulders. Heads turned. Groups huddled closer together. Someone coughed a word that sounded suspiciously like a slur, followed by muffled laughter.

"Fresh meat," a voice called out, loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough to deny. Amara counted her breaths like her grandfather had taught her. In for four, hold for four. Out for four. Her fingers brushed against Ayanna's, a silent signal they'd used since childhood.

Stay calm. Inside, the hallway buzzed with activity. Lockers slammed, voices echoed off lenolium floors. But as the Washington twins moved forward, a strange pattern emerged. Students stepped into their path, forcing them to dodge and weave.

A shoulder check sent Amara stumbling into the wall. "Oh, sorry," said a blonde girl with a smile that never reached her eyes. "Didn't see you there." Ayana's hand curled into a fist. Amara touched her sister's wrist.

"Not yet." They found their lockers side by side near the end of the main corridor. Before they could reach them, a wall of bodies appeared. Three boys in Letterman jackets, led by one who stood slightly taller than the rest. His smile was easy.

Practiced dangerous. "Well, look who it is," he said, leaning against the lockers as if he owned them. "The new students." The paws before students hung in the air like poison. Amara studied him carefully.

Square jaw, broad shoulders, eyes that measured everything they saw. "This was someone used to power. We need to get to our lockers," Amara said quietly. The boy's smile widened. I'm Cody.

Cody Mercer, and you're blocking my view. His friends laughed as if this was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. Your locker is down there, Ayanna pointed out, her voice sharp. Number two was 17. We're 143 and 144.

Cody raised an eyebrow. Been checking me out already. I'm flattered, but move, Ayanna said. The word clipped and hard. From the corner of her eye, Amara spotted a figure watching from the gym doorway.

A man in his 50s, arms crossed over a polo shirt stretched tight across his chest. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were fixed directly on them. On his chest, the school logo and beneath it, Coach Sorrel. He didn't move, didn't intervene, just watched with a look that said he approved of every second. 5 minutes to the bell, Amara said quietly to her sister.

Let's just go around. As they turned to take the long way, Cody called after them. Welcome to Westfield, girls. We're going to have so much fun this year. The laughter that followed chased them all the way to their first class.

English was taught by Mr. Peterson, a balding man with tired eyes who barely looked up when they entered. He pointed to two empty seats without checking their names, and continued writing on the whiteboard. Amara opened her notebook, focusing on the lesson about The Great Gatsby. She felt the stairs boring into her back, but didn't turn around.

Stay invisible. That was the plan. 20 minutes into class, something hit Ayanna's desk. A folded piece of paper. Amara watched from the corner of her eye as her sister unfolded it, her face changing from curiosity to something hard and cold.

Amara leaned over slightly. On the paper, someone had drawn a crude picture and written a single word, a racial slur that made her stomach clench. Ayana's breath hitched. She raised her hand. Mr.

Peterson sighed. "Yes, Miss Washington," Ayana said. Someone passed me this note. She held it up. Mr.

Peterson walked over, squinted at it, then glanced around the room. His eyes lingered on a group of boys in the back who were suddenly very interested in their textbooks. I see, he said, taking the paper. He crumpled it and tossed it in the trash. Then he walked back to the board.

As I was saying, Fitzgerald's use of color symbolism. That was it. No acknowledgement, no discipline, nothing. Ayana's knuckles went white around her pencil. Amara reached across the aisle and touched her arm.

Wait. By lunchtime, the pattern was clear. This wasn't random. This was organized, practiced. A system where everyone knew their role except the twins.

The cafeteria was a minefield. They found an empty table in the corner and set down their trays. I hate this place. Ayana whispered fiercely. "Did you see how that teacher just I know," Amara said.

"Just eat. We'll figure it out." They were halfway through their lunch when a group of girls walked by. One tripped, so obviously fake that several people were already laughing before it happened, and her carton of milk sailed through the air, splashing across both their shirts. Oh my god, I'm so clumsy, the girl exclaimed, her hand covering her mouth in mock horror.

Someone should really mop this floor better. The cafeteria erupted in laughter. Milk dripped from Ayana's braids onto her lap. Amara stood frozen, feeling the cold liquid seep through to her skin. A teacher appeared, not to help, but to tell them to clean up.

No one offered paper towels. No one said a word to the girl who was now high-fiving her friends at another table. After school, they waited outside Principal Reeves's office. Amara had insisted they report everything. "There are rules," she'd told Ayana.

"If we don't tell them what's happening, they can pretend they don't know." "Principal Reeves was a thin woman with short blonde hair and a smile that never seemed to move the rest of her face." She listened to their account with her hands folded neatly on her desk. I understand your concerns, she said when they finished. Moving to a new school can be quite an adjustment.

This isn't about adjustment, Ayanna said, her voice rising. That note had, I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding, Principal Reeves interrupted, her smile tightening. Our students are very welcoming once you get to know them. But the milk, Amara started. Accidents happen in crowded cafeterias, Principal Reeves said.

She stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. Give it time. Focus on your studies. I'm sure by next week you'll feel right at home. They were dismissed with another tight smile and promises to keep an eye on things.