The fabric itched in all the wrong places.
The collar sat stiff against my neck, the skirt hung weird on my hips, and the blouse clung to my shoulders just enough to make me feel like the seams were watching me. I kept tugging at it, quiet and pointless, like if I pulled the hem down enough times maybe it would finally feel like it fit. It didn't.
Who designed this? Someone with a personal vendetta against shoulders?
Selma was already waiting by the gate, leaned up against the black iron bars like this was just any other Monday. Her hair was braided down her back and she wore the same uniform as me, only it looked like it belonged on her—like she'd been wearing it for years and didn't even notice it anymore.
Mine felt like a disguise.
Like if I moved wrong, it'd slide off and someone would see what was underneath.
"Hey," she said.
"Hi."
She gave me a quick once-over. Not judging. Just checking.
"You look good," she said. "Like someone who's about to survive the first day and pretend it never happened."
I tried to smile, but it landed closer to a grimace.
My hair had grown to the base of my neck and curled out at the ends no matter what I did. I brushed it three times this morning and it still looked like I lost a fight with a pillow. It sat just along my jaw now, like it wasn't sure what shape it was supposed to take.
Same.
Selma started walking, and I followed.
The front entrance looked taller today. Students flowed through it like it was nothing, pulling off backpacks and fixing collars and laughing like none of it mattered. I kept close behind her, eyes low.
Just make it to lunch. Don't think beyond that.
Inside, the halls were warm and loud and too bright. The floors stretched out in polished wood, and sound bounced off the lockers and the high ceiling. Every group we passed seemed to buzz with energy, and I kept catching glances I wasn't sure were even real.
"They're not staring," Selma said under her breath.
"I didn't say they were."
"You were thinking it."
I didn't argue.
She handed me a folded paper schedule. "We've got lit, science, and history together. For the rest, I'll walk you to class. No big deal."
"Okay."
We passed a knot of students near the stairs and one of them looked our way a little too long, or maybe I imagined it, but something twisted in my gut before I could stop it.
Selma didn't break stride. "Ignore them. They're still buffering from summer."
"I feel like my shoes are loud."
"They're regulation."
"They still sound loud."
"They're your shoes, Ely."
I nodded, even though I was already fiddling with the strap of my bag again as we walked down a quieter hall. The light was softer here and the lockers were lined in perfect rows that looked too clean.
We stopped at mine. I fumbled the combo once and dropped the schedule, and Selma leaned against the locker next to me without a word. I finally got it open, shoved some of my things inside, and took a breath.
No one's laughing. No one's staring. It just feels like they are.
First period was literature.
The teacher was tall, probably in her forties, with a tight bun and a cardigan that looked like it had its own budget. She motioned us toward the middle of the room and started passing out a syllabus before I had time to even sit straight.
Selma took the desk next to mine.
I didn't hear half of what was said.
My fingers tapped the side of the desk and my knee wouldn't stop bouncing. My brain kept slipping back to how tight the waistband felt, and whether the girl behind me could see how tense I was sitting.
I hate this skirt. I hate this room. I hate that my name's at the top of this page like it's supposed to mean something.
I didn't speak. Just wrote my name and stared at it like it didn't belong to me.
When the bell rang, I flinched.
Selma leaned over. "One down."
I nodded.
Next was history.
Aunt Clara's classroom felt different. Warmer. More grounded. Maps hung from the walls, along with old photos and yellowed newspaper clippings. She didn't look at me any longer than anyone else when I walked in, and she said my name during roll call like she'd never heard it before.
That helped.
Selma gave me a look across the aisle—just a small one—and I kept my head down and copied the board word for word.
No one looked twice.
I'll take it. God, I'll take not being noticed if it means I get to breathe.
Then came lunch.
Selma led me outside to a courtyard behind the building. It was quiet out here. Grass, cracked stone, a few trees lining the fence. Students scattered at tables and benches, already halfway through their meals.
"C'mon," she said. "I want you to meet a few people."
My stomach knotted.
"Do I have to?"
"You're not marrying them," she said. "Just saying hi."
We crossed toward a table where three others sat—two girls, one guy. One of the girls had a ponytail and freckles. The other wore silver earrings and leaned on one hand. The boy was mid-bite of his second sandwich and looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
"This is Ely," Selma said, sliding in beside the guy like she'd been doing it all her life. "She's new, and I like her, so you have to like her too."
The girl with the ponytail grinned. "I can work with that."
"I'm Hana," she said.
"Luis," the boy said, barely looking up.
The girl with the earrings tilted her head. "Zahra. I know Selma from club. She's tolerable."
"Love you too," Selma said, and stole a grape off Zahra's tray.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Just air.
Say something. Anything. Even just hi. Come on, just—
Selma didn't wait.
"Ely's had a morning," she said. "Still deciding whether or not this whole place is a social experiment."
"I knew it," Hana said.
Zahra rolled her eyes. "Don't get her started."
I sat down slowly, tried to fold my skirt under me, but felt the back bunch up and ride high. My face went cold.
Selma's hand brushed under the table and gave my thigh a light smack.
Not hard. Just enough to say hey.
I froze, then yanked the hem down quickly, heart pounding.
I knew it. I knew I sat wrong. Someone saw. Someone noticed—
But no one said a thing.
They kept talking. Hana complained about electives, Zahra griped about textbooks, Luis ate like his life depended on it. I sat there quietly, nodding sometimes and chewing too slow so I wouldn't have to say much.
And it was... okay.
Someone cracked a joke about the math teacher's comb-over and I actually smiled.
Selma noticed. She didn't say anything—just leaned her shoulder against mine for a second before pulling away.
That tiny moment made the skirt feel less tight and the air a little less sharp.
For the first time all day, I didn't feel like I was being stared at.
Not invisible. Not on display.
Just here.
And maybe that's enough.