Once the entrance ceremony ended, I followed the map the Student Council members had handed out in the auditorium, making my way toward the academic building.
The hallway was alive with the restless energy of students who had just been told their lives were beginning. Some moved in clusters, already chattering about clubs and schedules like they'd known each other for years. Others clutched their maps with both hands and wore the same carefully composed expression I suspected I did — the look of someone trying very hard not to appear completely lost.
I kept my eyes on my map and kept walking.
The academic building was easy enough to find. Inside, I completed the required paperwork for my student ID card at the front desk, then a clerk guided me to a row of school computers along the far wall for class registration. I pulled out the chair, settled in, and logged into the school's portal.
The website laid everything out clearly.
Four core subjects — English, Mathematics, Social Science, and Science — were mandatory for all four years. No exceptions, no substitutions. Alongside those, each student selected one World Language and one Elective, both of which could be changed each semester.
I scrolled through the options slowly.
The World Language list was long — Spanish, French, German, Italian, Russian, Latin, Arabic, Greek, Korean, Mandarin. I paused on a few. Latin felt too ancient. Russian felt too cold. I hovered over French for a moment longer than I meant to, then kept scrolling.
Spanish. Practical. Familiar enough to feel approachable, still enough of a challenge to feel worthwhile. I clicked it without overthinking.
The Elective list gave me more pause. Journalism. Creative Writing. Psychology. Sociology. Philosophy. Forensic Science. Astronomy. Robotics. Graphic Design. Web Design. Accounting. Statistics. Data Science. Environmental Science. Business. Marketing, and so on.
I read through them twice. Some felt like the old Madison — the curious, reach-for-everything girl who used to sign up for everything just to see what happened. I pressed that feeling down gently and focused.
Marketing. Strategic. Forward-thinking. The kind of subject that felt less like looking backward and more like building something.
I selected it and moved on.
For freshmen, the core classes for fall semister were already decided:
English 1. Algebra 1. World History. Biology.
Simple. Structured. I could work with that.
The last section was class placement. A note at the top explained the system — each freshman had been sorted into one of eight classes of forty students, organized by rank according to entrance exam scores.
I found my name.
Madison Jones — Class B. Rank 18.
I stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Eighteen. Out of three hundred and twenty students. Near the top of my entire year.
Three years of grief. Three years of keeping my head down, of surviving rather than living, of pouring everything I had left into the only thing I could control — my academics. Three years of being a ghost.
And somehow, quietly, without anyone noticing, I had still managed this.
A small, faint spark flickered somewhere deep in my chest. Fragile. Unfamiliar. But real.
Maybe, I thought, for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
Maybe this fresh start could actually turn into something more.
I logged out of the portal, folded my map, and stood up from the chair.
For the first time since arriving in Burbank Heights, I walked out of a building feeling just slightly less like a shadow.