As we cross the front lawn, Canoga Park High School sprawls in front of us.

“You sure about this?” Rich asks as he surveys the expansive campus.

“I’m sick of the drama at Hollywood High.”

Mom sighs. “All I’ve wanted is to get you away from the danger at that place, but now that I’m getting my wish, I want to drag you back there immediately.”

“The vibe at this school is so bland,” Rich says hesitantly.

“You’re making a mistake,” Mom says, turning to me in a rush. “I know I don’t have your intuition, but this just doesn’t seem right.”

“Let’s give it a shot, okay, Mom?”

I lead the way down the front breezeway and through the door with a big sign reading, Main Office. We cross the threshold and are met by a slumpy receptionist. Her clothing, quaffed hair, and horn-rimmed glasses are so drab.

“Good morning. How may I help you?”

“We’d like to discuss enrolling our daughter, Melanie Slate, in classes,” Mom says nervously. “She’s a tenth grader.”

The receptionist flops a hand, without looking up from her paperwork she’s perusing. “Transcripts from your previous school, please.”

Anxiously, I glance at my parents, but my mom is prepared. She takes my transcripts out of her purse and hands them over with a reluctant smile. She murmurs to me, “Ms. G gathered them before Rich and I rushed over here.”

The receptionist looks them over and frowns. “There are no PE credits on here.”

“Dance classes counted as PE credits at Hollywood High,” I explain.

“They don’t count here. This makes you six credits behind. You’ll have to take two PE classes a semester this year to make up for it.”

My heart sinks. I hate PE with a passion. I glance at Mom and Rich, and they both look unsure.

The receptionist calls out to a counselor, who steps to us and looks over my transcripts, her scowl lines working overtime. She wears various shades of beige, ill-fitting clothing. I wince a little as I survey the office. It’s painted in puke green that I guarantee was purchased in bulk back when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Everyone who works in this tomb kind of shuffles and sighs about. I’m hoping it’s not a bad omen.

“Welcome, Melanie,” the counselor says, without offering her name. “You’re a little late to the game, but I’ll get you plugged into tenth grade classes. The pickings are slim for electives. We have room in shop class, and your two PE classes will fill the other two spots.”

“Shop class?” I say skeptically.

The counselor just sort of huffs a response.

“Do you have theater or dance classes?”

“We do,” she grunts, “but they’re reserved for seniors.”

Before I can even decide whether this is what I’m definitely going to do, she heads to the copier. She returns, handing me my not-so-exciting schedule. She gestures to a high-school-age boy sitting next to her at the desk. He seems to have more life in him than the old hags that molt in this artifact of misery past. He smiles and his eyes sparkle. His blue-and-yellow letterman jacket hints at the likelihood that he’s popular. I sneak a peek at the arm patch, discovering that he plays water polo.

Weird. I didn’t even know water polo was a high school thing.

Trevor looks like the stock hot-guy teen from every cartoon I’ve ever watched featuring high school kids: blue eyes, brunette with the haircut every nice guy has lately, well-defined jaw, a real boy-next-door type.

“Melanie, this is Trevor, one of our office TAs. He’ll take you on a tour of campus. Lunch starts in thirty minutes. That should be plenty of time to give you a lay of the land.”

My head is spinning as I thank her.

Trevor lifts the counter passthrough section and smiles brightly as he crosses to us. “Melanie is in good hands,” he says to my parents. He turns to me and sweeps his arm toward the door. “We’re off and running. Welcome to your new home sweet home.”

I glance at my parents over my shoulder, but Trevor sweeps me out of the room before I can say anything.

~~~

Trevor’s pleasant in an oddly innocent way. He has a personality, but it’s more like a shell. He’s supposed to act like a nice hot guy who runs his hand through his hair, and he does. He stands like “that” guy stands. Everything about him looks and sounds right, but there’s nothing soul deep about it. It’s a bit baffling. As we get to the end of the tour, we turn into the empty cafeteria. We pass an announcement corkboard, where I stop to survey the club selections. When I find a flyer for a dance club, I break into a grin.

“You’re a dancer?” Trevor asks, sounding intrigued.

“Would you show me where tryouts will be, really quick?”

He grins. “They’re here in the cafeteria after school.”

I survey the concrete floor—a disaster for a dancer’s joints during leaps. Oh boy . . .

My concern is swept away by the ringing of the bell.

Trevor takes my elbow and guides me to the lunch line. “Let’s get in line first,” he says. “I want to snag my usual table and introduce you to my friends.”

“That’s really thoughtful of you, Trevor. Thank you.”

We work down the lunch line. The choices are the typical sludgy cafeteria mess one would expect. With internal disdain, I survey the grayish Salisbury steak, then tell the jovial cafeteria lady, “I think I’d like a yogurt and a banana.”

She chuckles, her ample bosom vibrating. “Full tray, young lady. You’re tiny, and I plan to feed you. Don’t let the steaming pans fool you. I’m a good cook.”

Charmed by the fact that she has an actual personality, I nod. “Deal.”

The cafeteria lady fills my tray and grins at me as she slides it over the metal counter. “I’m Miss Tyra.”

I return the smile and introduce myself.

Miss Tyra cheerfully waves us through, and Trevor pulls out his wallet when we get to the cashier.

“I’d like to treat Melanie to lunch.” He takes a twenty out and accepts his change from the lackluster cashier.

I pick up my tray and turn to Trevor. “Thank you!”

Trevor guides me to a lunch table. “You’re more than welcome.”

As people join us at the table, it’s more of the same. They say the things, give the looks, and have a popular air, but something is wrong. Dread starts to bubble in my gut. Against my better judgment, I open my connection with Trey.

“Something’s wrong here. I think this whole school is possessed . . . or something,” I send.

Trey watches through my eyes and listens through my ears, while the cheerleaders and water polo guys laugh, fist pound, and chatter about inane nonsense.

“Do you feel that?” I send. “It’s like their bodies are animated but empty.”

A wave of sadness wafts through the connection from Trey. “That’s the feeling of normal teens, Melanie. They haven’t figured themselves out. They act like they think teens act. They hide real emotions. It’s all a façade, but it’s standard-issue normal stuff. Hollywood High is weird. We all act like explosive volcanoes. You’re experiencing normalcy, but it’s not evil.”

I slam my wall tight, blocking out Trey.

Holy crap, I think as I survey mundane reality, that’s now my reality.