The air in the main hallway of Northcrest Academy always smelled the same: expensive floor wax, pressurized oxygen, and the faint, metallic tang of old money. Usually, that smell made me feel like I was finally part of something. Today, it felt like the scent of a refrigerated vault.
As I walked toward my locker, the "Social Blackout" was a physical force. It wasn’t that people were whispering about me; it was that they weren't. When I turned a corner, a group of senior girls stopped mid-sentence, their faces going blank as they looked through me like I was made of glass. One of them didn't even move her bag out of the way; I had to sidestep her to avoid being tripped.
I reached my locker and leaned my forehead against the cold metal for a second. My skin felt raw, sensitized by the memo
