One train ride down the mountain and a short walk later, I arrived at school. As I passed through the large iron gates, I showed my ID to the guard in the small booth. He scanned it with barely a glance towards me, making a record of my near tardiness. The front lawn was almost empty as most everyone else was heading inside or were already. My scheduled train always left me just enough time to power stroll to my locker, exchange my books, and then head to my homeroom. Sometimes, if I was lucky, I would be able to catch up with all the morning gossip before homeroom began. When my Grandfather first suggested I attend Royal Queen Academy, I complained, as the idea of a long commute into the city seemed like a hassle. But after visiting the campus, I relented, eventually deciding the train ride through the mountains was kinda nice. It would often give me the chance to chill and listen to music or sketch an idea for a new painting.

Royal Queen Academy itself was housed in an old building that used to be a hospital back in the early 1900s. When a new hospital was built in the center of the city, the building was sold and turned into a prestigious boarding school. The main building looked old-fashioned at first, but the inside was fully renovated, with all of the state-of-the-art electronics and nice, comfy amenities that rich kids desired. Although sometimes we still had problems with the air conditioning in a few of the upstairs rooms.

As the years went on, the school eventually moved its live-in residents off campus to a more modern apartment building, deeper in the city. The school had a fancy fleet of vans that would bus kids to and from their dorm rooms and also into the city for shopping at the local mall. They tore down the old dorms and in their place built a large swimming pool, tennis courts, and a beautiful garden that sat just behind the main building. I spent most of my time in the art room, located adjacent to the gardens, as I was an avid painter in my spare time. It was a hobby I'd picked up as a way to help process my dreams. I honestly wasn't keen on sharing my dream artwork with anyone besides my friends or my Grandfather, who always declared all of my work 'fantastic' despite the subject matter.

As far as the students went, since our school was so renowned for its amazing teachers and top-tier education, we ended up with a lot of the children of diplomats or rich businesspeople. It created a strange divide between the hardworking, overachieving kids and the rich party crowd. These were kids who had lived all over the world and had experienced more in one year of their lives than I could hope to see in several lifetimes. I found myself admiring how independent most of them were. The campus seemed more like a college than a high school at times, despite the uniforms. The smallest group of kids attending the school were the few locals who could afford the tuition but not much else, and I fell into that category. My Grandfather never liked to talk about money, but he assured me that he could afford my tuition. I remained unconvinced of this fact after I saw a bill from the school that he had tried to hide from me. I knew how much he made selling apples, and it honestly never added up despite his side job as a consultant. At one point, I insisted that he should track down my wayward aunt Mary, who was related to me on my father's side. After my parents died, she took possession of a lot of their valuables, claiming she was holding them for me for 'safekeeping'. Since then, she has denied ever promising to store anything, and I doubted I would ever see the money or items she took, leaving me somewhat bitter. Grandpa told me he had a handle on it, including my tuition expenses, and insisted I focus on other things.

My face must have soured while I was thinking of my aunt, because Elizabeth, the queen bee of our class, was giving me a look. I had just stepped into my homeroom, pausing as I processed the emotions flooding over me. As I scanned the room, we locked eyes. Elizabeth was always stunning, with perfect makeup, smooth, silky blond hair, and a haughty look in her eyes. It was no wonder she worked as a model on her off time and had thousands of followers on social media. Her outward appearance was always flawless, but that was just a shell. Behind that coy smile was a hateful, racist, and selfish child. Elizabeth smiled, and I could almost taste her disdain from where I stood. We were not friends, that was for sure, especially after I yelled at her in the library for being rude to my soon-to-be friend Sunita at the end of our freshman year. I came back next summer blacklisted from most social groups, which didn't bother me much. Fewer humans interacting with me meant fewer emotions I had to deal with.

Slowly, I watched as Elizabeth turned to whisper to her two friends. The pair were weirdly both named Madison, although they couldn't look more different. The trio were talking softly as they glanced between me and each other. I had secretly hoped that I was not the topic of discussion but, the mean girl giggling that ensued shortly after I passed, quickly squashed that fantasy. I furrowed my brow and dashed for my seat, trying to keep my head held high.

My heart lifted as I could already see Zola and Sunita, my only friends in the world, sitting at their desks. The two were talking amongst themselves, their books and binders spread out in front of them.

Zola saw me first and smiled while giving me a friendly wave. "Hey Diana!!" she sang out. I couldn't help but grin when I saw her. Zola had the most amazing smile; it was no wonder people liked her so much. She also had little tolerance for bullshit and was one of the sharpest people in our class. Not many people messed with her, at least not to her face.

"I love the glasses today," I remarked, nodding toward her face. Zola was what she called a 'glasses fashionista'. Some women loved shoes, others might collect purses, but she loved to accessorize with eyewear. Today, her frames were cotton candy pink and shaped like squares, which perfectly accessorized her lips. The colors popped vividly against her beautiful, dark skin, and her hair was pulled back, away from her face, into her usual double afro puffs. Zola's eyes were a deep brown, her lashes naturally long. She was tall and curvy, with strong arms and legs that came from her passion for the outdoors. I was deeply jealous of her amazing arm muscles and had told her that fact many times over our friendship. What I loved most about Zola was how she would always radiate confidence. She had a strong, caring family and grew up loved and adored. She was one of the few rich kids I could actually stand to be around in this school. When she wasn't hiking, gardening, or binge-watching television, she loved to write stories. Recently, she confessed that she was mildly obsessed with my dream paintings and told me she liked to make up stories behind all of my art. I was flattered.

Zola beamed at my compliment about her glasses. "Why, thank you!" she purred, posing for a moment to give me the full effect. I slid into my chair just behind my two friends. It happened to be the seat nearest to the window, which was great for daydreaming.

Sunita then turned to greet me as I sat down. "Good morning, Diana," she said softly. Sunita was the more reserved, quiet member of our group. A trait that she would occasionally blame on her strict upbringing. She had a habit of apologizing for herself, often, and even sometimes to the point of tears. She was prone to panic attacks and tended to shut down when anyone around her got too emotional. As meek as Sunita seemed when I first met her, our years together as friends seemed to drag her slowly out of her shell. I noticed she was slowly beginning to blossom as our last year of school began. She had a passion for cooking and studying that rivaled the kids in the elite class. She loved to learn as much as she could about new cultures and was my go-to person when I needed a book recommendation. Sunita herself was a strikingly beautiful East Indian girl. She had deeply tanned skin, large dark eyes, and thick eyebrows. Her extra-thick, super-long black hair was usually tied back in braids. No matter how much I begged her to wear her hair down to school, I was refused. Sunita claimed it was a hassle, and seeing as I was always detangling my own unruly mane of hair, I could understand why.

"Morning, Sunita," I replied as I pulled out my thermos of coffee. "How was your weekend? Get to visit with the parental units?" Sunita and Zola both lived in the dorms as roommates. Occasionally, their parents would come to visit, or they would travel to see them. Sunita, unfortunately, did not have the happy home life that Zola did. Her father was overbearing and controlling. She was slightly terrified of him and usually came back from her home visits in various states of distress. As I waited for Sunita's response, I glanced around, looking for the teacher. I wanted to sneak a quick caffeine boost before homeroom began.

"Yes, it was..." Sunita hesitated, "Nice." She finished quickly. Sunita didn't like speaking ill of people, but we all knew that she and her father did not get along.

"Nice?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I am going to need some more details, please, and thank you. Did something happen with your dad?"

"No, Father was, well, he is..." Sunita stammered, trailing off once again.

"Nice...?" I offered up, using her own words.

"Niiiiiice," Zola repeated, throwing some finger guns at me. I grinned and shook my head. Sunita wrinkled her nose, making a sour face at our comments. We knew she would not talk ill of her family in public, but the details would come out during one of our girls' nights.

"What's wrong with being NICE?" Sunita squeaked. She quickly raised her hand in front of her mouth, shocked by her loud outburst. I watched as she glanced around, worried if others had noticed.

"Nothing's wrong with being nice," I shrugged, pulling out my thermos.

"Nice is nice," Zola added, nodding her head with a serious expression. I could tell she was trying very hard not to laugh.

"Very nice. The nicest," I added, also nodding. We both grinned as Sunita let out a huff.

"I'm ignoring you both now," Sunita sniffed, turning primly in her chair to face forward. All her notebooks and pencils were perfectly arranged for class, but I saw her fiddle with them as she pretended not to listen.

"Noooooo, don't ignore us!" Zola cried out. "That's not NICE!"

Sunita made a tsking noise as I giggled. I took a swig from my thermos, and deliciously warm but delightfully bitter green tea danced across my taste buds. It felt good to laugh after a weekend of bad dreams, followed by a night of no sleep.

A flurry of activity in front of the classroom signaled that the teacher was coming. I capped my thermos and stuck it under my desk, quickly trading it for my folders and books. Other students did the same, finishing last-minute snacks, typing final texts on their phones, and exchanging notes on homework in a flurry of activity.

Our homeroom teacher, Mr. Burke, strolled into the room, reading from his clipboard as he entered. He was a taller man, with a slim build and a stern look always plastered on his face. He was one of the younger teachers at the school, with a head full of sandy, tangled locks that he would attempt to wear slicked back on his head. He also wore glasses that always seemed smudged and suits that always needed pressing. Despite his disheveled appearance, he was a real stickler for rules and order. He had a short temper and was quick to yell at students. His homework assignments were the stuff of legend, and all of the academic students strove for an A in his class.

"Alright, everyone, settle down. Let's get the roll done quickly, as we have a new student today," Mr. Burke announced. He said this because he knew a new student meant we would be distracted, throwing off the lesson plan. All of this would, of course, annoy Mr. Burke, as he hated nothing more than to be put off track. He pulled out the roll sheet and began shouting out names rapid-fire, glancing up as he went. Some of the students were already murmuring to each other about the new student. It was the start of our senior year, so many wondered who would be transferring in now. Vaguely curious, I glanced at the door and caught a glimpse of a person behind the frosted glass. I saw Zola glance over at me while Sunita seemed to stiffen in her chair. I then realized why Sunita seemed so nervous. It was because I was sitting at one of the only two desks in the classroom without a second person.

(to be continued in part 2)