FIXING WOUNDS

FIRST FRIEND

Ivy didn’t want a new school. She wanted a new life.

But life doesn’t work that way.

So here she was — standing in the examination hall of Westridge Academy with three younger siblings clinging to her hoodie and her older sister, Jasmine, holding the stack of forms. Five step-siblings in total. None of them understood why Ivy had dragged them back to this place.

Westridge wasn’t new. It was old. Too old.

This was her childhood school. The same hallways she used to run through with her mom holding her hand, the same lockers she used to decorate with stickers, the same courtyard where she and her mom would eat lunch on sunny Fridays.

The moment she left, everything broke.

Now she was back. And nothing looked fixed.

They were late. The admissions exam had already started. Ivy could feel thirty pairs of eyes on her the second she pushed open the heavy metal door. Not curious eyes. Judgmental eyes. The kind of look you give a rat that slipped into the kitchen — _how did you get in here, and what are you ruining?_

Ivy didn’t explain. She walked straight to the back, pulled out the papers, and started writing. Her hand shook. The words blurred. But she kept going. Because if she stopped, she might start crying. And she didn’t cry in public anymore.

The interview was worse.

Five teachers sat in a row behind a long table. All of them with clipboards. All of them with that look — the “we’ve seen kids like you before” look.

“Why did you leave Westridge two years ago?”

“Why are you reapplying now?”

“What’s your home situation?”

Ivy answered in a whisper. Shaky. Broken. Each word felt like she was pulling it out of her throat with bare hands. When it was over, she walked out without looking back.

A week later, they were officially enrolled.

Ivy stepped into Classroom 4B and the room went silent.

It wasn’t the silence of respect. It was the silence of recognition.

“This isn’t a new classroom,” Ivy thought. “This is the classroom I sat in for four years. This is the desk I carved my initials into. This is the window I used to stare out of when I was happy.”

Her old friends were there. Or at least, people who used to be her friends.

“Isn’t that Ivy?” someone whispered. “The one who used to laugh all the time? Why’s she so quiet now?”

Ivy sat at the back. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Because what was she supposed to say? _I’m quiet because my mom doesn’t love me anymore? I’m quiet because I don’t trust anyone? I’m quiet because I’m tired of pretending I’m okay?_

The whispers kept coming. The memories kept coming.

What she ran away from was coming back. Like an endless puzzle with no solution. Like a trap she couldn’t climb out of.

Ivy put her head down on the desk and closed her eyes. The classroom noise faded into a dull buzz. For the first time in weeks, she slept.

---

The introductory week passed in a blur. Then real lessons started.

Ivy was placed in the front row. Average height, the teacher said. Easier to see the board. She was seated between two boys who hadn’t spoken to her yet. That was fine. Silence was safe.

One morning, Ms. Peterson stood at the front of the class with a clipboard.

“Ivy Johnson. Stand up and introduce yourself to the class.”

Ivy froze.

Introduce herself? To these people? To the same kids who were already whispering about her? To the same school that watched her fall apart and did nothing?

Her palms went cold. Her chest tightened. The room started spinning.

Why did she have to introduce herself?

What was there left to say?