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The bus pulled away with a hiss of brakes and a puff of diesel, and just like that, I was on my own.
I tightened my grip on my duffel and stepped away from the turnaround, blinking in the morning sun. The sky was that kind of flat, cloudless blue that only exists before noon in late August. Already warm, already humming with whatever came next. Around me, boys were peeling off toward buildings, dragging trunks, hauling duffel bags, balancing boxes. A few parents lingered, taking last-minute photos, adjusting collars that didn’t need fixing. My mom hadn’t been able to come, so I was completely on my own.
I felt a little like Michael Smith in Stranger in a Strange Land — dropped into a new world with its own language, customs, and quiet rules I didn’t understand. Would I ever find my “water brother” in a place like this? This elite prep school where I already knew I was different from almost everyone else? Or maybe I was more like Gene from A Separate Peace, searching for my Finny — someone who could balance me out, challenge me, change me. Though that story doesn’t exactly end well either.
Yeah, I was a total nerd. I owned it. I’d come to Harrison West Academy hoping to find people who got me — not shoved me into lockers for quoting Catcher in the Rye. People who didn’t think referencing classic novels was weird or pretentious, but actually kind of cool. But the more I saw the monogrammed Louis Vuitton duffels and chauffeurs unloading brand-new MacBooks from the backs of black SUVs, the harder it was to believe I belonged here at all.
Harrison West Academy, a prestigious all-boys’ prep school in the boondocks of Michigan, sat ahead of me like it had been waiting a long time. The quad stretched wide and green, with crisp walkways threading through manicured lawns and tall maples, still full and green this time of year. I remembered the map from the tour — how everything here had a place, a name, a weight. Nothing haphazard. Nothing small.
The buildings stood like monuments — Colonial Revival red-brick with white trim and black shutters, roofs slate-gray and steeply pitched. They didn’t look old so much as established, like they’d grown here instead of being built.
I passed a group of returning students laughing by a fountain, already slipping back into their routines and sipping on giant iced lattes. One of them glanced at me, long enough for our eyes to meet. I gave a half-hearted wave, just trying to be nice (Mom often said you have to go out of your way to make a new friend, even if it’s uncomfortable).
“Did you guys see that?” The boy I’d dared to make eye contact with laughed as he turned to his friends. His voice dripped with amusement, but his eyes locked on me with something colder. He stepped forward, and the laughter around him quieted like a curtain falling.
“Look, plebe,” he said, drawing out the word with a sneer. “Here’s your first lesson on how things work around here. You’re a plebeian — bottom rung. We’re patricians. We run the place. You keep your head down, stay in your lane, and maybe you’ll survive. Maybe. But you’ll never be one of us.”
He gave me a smug little smile, then flicked his hand like I was nothing more than lint on his designer jacket — and just like that, he turned away, already bored with me. But I wasn’t done with him. Not even close. His words clung to me, sharp and familiar, like old bruises I thought I’d left behind. Maybe the bullying hadn’t ended when I changed schools — maybe it had just swapped hoodies for tailored blazers.
What he clearly missed during Ancient Roman History — assuming he even stayed awake — was that the plebeians didn’t stay powerless forever. Over time, they won their rights, their voice, their place. The lines between plebeian and patrician faded. So really, his insult wasn’t quite the flex he thought it was.
About a hundred yards further down the tree-lined path, Reynard Field House came into view, just where I remembered it from a previous tour: two stories tall, red brick with thick white columns, the name carved above the entrance in fading serifed stone. It looked exactly like the kind of place where you were expected to stand up straight and not ask too many questions.
Inside, it smelled musty, like old paper and polished floors and the ghosts of a thousand sweaty assemblies. My shoes echoed on the hardwood as I stepped into the main hall, which was bigger than I remembered. A row of long tables had been set up beneath towering windows, the light cutting through the dust in slow, golden angles.
A handwritten sign read New Students — Check In Here. The woman behind the table looked exactly like someone who did this every year and had long since stopped pretending to care. She wore a stretched-out cardigan over a rumpled polo, her gray hair scraped into a low bun, and a pair of reading glasses hung from a chain around her thick neck. She didn’t look up.
“Name?” she asked, her voice flat as a floorboard.
“Nicholas Kincaid,” I answered.
She flipped through a leaning tower of manila folders, pulled mine from the middle, and shoved it toward me without ceremony. “Linden Hall, Room 2B. House Parent’s Mr. Gordon. Orientation is at ten sharp in the auditorium. The map’s in the packet. Don’t lose it.”
Before I could even say thanks, she moved on to the next kid, a scrawny looking boy with a sign around his neck that said, “8th Grade” and a name tag that read “Jonah.” He had a mischievous quality about him, and I blushed when he met my eyes and gave me an impish grin.
I stepped back, packet in hand, and scanned the inside of Reynard — tall walls lined with dark wood paneling, portraits of old men with serious expressions glaring down like judges. They probably haunted this place now. A heavy chandelier loomed over the center of the hall, and above it, the ceiling arched like a cathedral. I could almost hear the weight of history pressing down.
Outside again, the light felt too bright. The quiet had changed — now filled with footsteps and voices, wheels over pavement, the occasional sharp whistle of a tennis serve somewhere off behind the gym. I crossed the quad slowly, my shoes already damp at the edges from dew that hadn’t yet burned off.
Linden Hall sat at the far end, shaded by two towering elms, its windows lined up in perfect rows. It looked a little plainer than the rest of the buildings, but still solid, still proud. I stood at the base of the steps for a moment, staring up at it, hesitant to step inside for the first time.
Harrison West wasn’t even that far from home, just ninety minutes by bus, if you knew the right transfer point. Technically, I could go back every weekend if things got bad. But standing here now, clutching my welcome packet and trying not to sweat through my shirt, it felt like I’d landed in another country, or another world. Or maybe another version of myself I hadn’t met yet.
Who was I going to be here? Would I just keep playing the same old role — the quiet nerd, the background character with too many opinions about 20th-century literature and world history? Or could I finally become someone different? Someone I’d only ever imagined being. Secure. Confident. Popular. With a close group of friends who actually got me.
But becoming that version of myself meant letting go of the person I’d always been — stepping out of the comfort zone of invisibility and into something messier, scarier. I’d have to ditch the armor of shyness, speak up, reach out. The problem? I had no idea how to do any of that. And if I tried, in my own awkward way, I was afraid I would just be laughed at.
Of course, what I really came here for was the quality education and the Academy’s stellar reputation when it came to sending its alumni to some of the best four-year colleges and universities in the country. The public schools just weren’t working for me. But I also came to get away from what came before — the whispered slurs in middle school, the cracked jokes in locker rooms, the shoves in the hallways. I told myself the boys here would be better. Smarter. That maybe I could breathe. So far, the odds didn’t appear to be in my favor, but that was just one kid out of a thousand or so. There had to be nice kids out there, right?
After nearly getting knocked over by several kids with large trunks and duffels while I was spaced out on the front steps of my dormitory, I decided it was now or never.
I exhaled.
Lifted my foot to the first step of Linden Hall.
And went inside.
***
I dropped my duffel on the narrow bed in Room 2B and sat beside it, the mattress groaning under my weight like it didn’t want to be disturbed.
The room was still empty. My new roommate hadn’t arrived yet.
The walls were bare, except for a corkboard and a shelf that ran uneven along one side. A small desk sat by the window, which looked out onto a row of trees — tall and leafy, still holding onto their green under the soft August sun. The air drifting through the cracked pane smelled faintly of bark and warm soil. It was quiet, almost peaceful. But
I couldn’t relax.
I let out a breath and rubbed my palms against my knees. I felt like I was still vibrating from the bus ride, like the tension had lodged somewhere in my ribs and refused to come loose.
I should’ve been excited. Or proud. I’d worked for this — pushed harder than I thought I could.
SSAT prep night after night, filling out applications so long they felt like confessionals, tweaking personal statements until I didn’t recognize my own voice. Waiting for decisions that took forever to come. Pretending it didn’t matter when, of course, it did.
Seven schools. Two waitlists. One rejection. And one yes — from Harrison West.
And I said yes back. Immediately.
Not because it was convenient — but because it wasn’t home. Not in the way that mattered.
After Dad died, things got quieter. Not emptier, exactly. Just… thinner. Stretched. My mom — who already worked too much — threw herself into the hospital even harder. Emergency medicine doesn’t wait, and she was one of the attending physicians at the busy County Hospital’s ER. The house became a place I managed, not a place I lived. She still tried. And she still loved me. But she was almost never around.
So, I got used to figuring things out on my own. Making dinner. Setting alarms. Signing my own field trip forms. It wasn’t dramatic. Just lonely. Like being a single-player version of a family.
So yeah — I was nervous. I was fourteen years old and in a dorm room for the first time, but it didn’t really count as my first time living “alone.” Fourteen and pretending like this didn’t feel a little like a mistake. But the truth was, I’d already been living like an adult for a while. Maybe this was just the next step in that progression.
Still, I didn’t come here for fun. Or drama. Or even necessarily friendship (although that would be nice), if I was being honest.
I came here to work. To focus. To build a future that wasn’t small.
Harrison West was no joke. The kids here had parents on university boards and names that came with their own gravity. If I wanted to keep up, I’d have to fight for every inch. There’d be no room for slacking off, no space for distractions.
Not even the kind of distractions I sometimes secretly wanted.
The kind that made my stomach flip when I caught myself staring at the wrong person for a second too long. The kind that made me lean into hugs like I couldn’t help it, then burn with shame afterward. Or worse — the kind that made my body react before my brain could shut it down, a pulse of heat and embarrassment just from seeing a cute boy walk by in shorts that fit too well.
That stuff? It didn’t belong here. Not yet. Just surviving puberty would be hard enough.
First, I had to prove I deserved to be here. That I could keep up. That I wasn’t just the scholarship kid punching above his weight.
Still… a part of me wondered.
Wondered if maybe, hidden among all the legacy kids and lacrosse players, there were others like me. Boys who didn’t have the words for what they were feeling yet. Boys who were trying to figure it out quietly. Carefully.
Maybe I’d find a friend.
Maybe something more.
But not now. Not yet. Not until I was truly thriving here.
That was the plan.
I glanced across the room at the second bed. Still untouched. No bag. No books. No idea who I was about to share my life with for the next year.
Would he be nice? Quiet? The kind of guy who put in headphones and left me alone? Or would he be loud? Cruel? The kind of kid who sensed something in me before I even opened my mouth? I prayed that it would be the former.
But I didn’t know.
And that uncertainty and anxiety sat in my chest like a stone.
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to flatten it again. It never quite stayed in place, even when I combed it carefully. Dirty blond, too long at the ears. My mom used to call it my “cowlick curse.” My eyes were hazel — nothing special. Just the kind that looked green in some lights and brown in others. I was about average height for fourteen, maybe a little skinny, but nothing worth pointing out. I considered myself pretty average.
I also hated that I’d started growing faster lately — shoulders stretching, limbs too long, my voice cracking without warning like some cruel joke mid-sentence. I was always worried it would break at the worst time, like during roll call or in front of someone I wanted to impress.
Like whoever might end up in that other bed.
I turned toward the old 19th century plate glass window and leaned my forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the trees swayed slowly in the breeze, their shadows sliding along the grass. A few kids passed below, voices echoing faintly. Far enough away that I didn’t have to feel anything about them yet.
The day was just beginning.
And so was everything that could go wrong.
***
By nine-thirty, the quad was crawling with new kids — most of them just as lost-looking as I felt. The older kids had moved-in the day before. Some had their schedules already folded and tucked into their pockets like they couldn’t wait to memorize them. Others walked with their heads up, confident, already cracking jokes, like orientation was just a formality before they got to rule the place. The Patricians.
We started the morning in the auditorium, a huge, vaulted space with rows of wooden seats and acoustics that made every whisper sound like a confession. The Dean of Student Life stood at the podium, smiling like he’d done this speech a hundred times.
There was a lot of talk about expectations, and integrity, and what it meant to be a Harrison West gentleman. Then came the rules.
Zero tolerance for drugs or alcohol. Zero tolerance for bullying, harassment, hazing of any kind. Nicked phones or lockers meant automatic detentions. Skipping class would be dealt with “swiftly and proportionally.” The message was clear: behave or disappear.
The bullying line stuck with me more than it probably should have. I felt myself exhale when the Dean said it — when he said they took it seriously. That they had systems in place. That they encouraged reporting. He looked right at us when he said it, too. Not just a line in the handbook. A promise. This was the kind of ethos that inspired me and provided me with some much-needed hope in the face of my spiraling anxiety.
They also went over the school’s commitment to diversity, equity, and inclusion, and mutual respect, which — while clearly polished for brochures — didn’t feel fake. Not yet. The Dean even added, “These values matter now more than ever, especially in a divided country where some would like to see them erased from schools, and our history, altogether.”
A few adults in the wings shifted at the Dean’s comments about DEI, but I just sat up a little taller, and prayed that these weren’t just empty words, but that the school treated them with the utmost importance.
Another thing I had really liked about Harrison West when I applied — its commitment to a more progressive curriculum.
After the heavy stuff came the mundane.
“Laundry service is contracted through a third-party vendor,” the Dean said. “You’ll receive a mesh bag and a schedule by dorm. Linens and uniforms are included. If you haven’t already paid, please visit the bursar’s office.”
I had. Or — my mom had. A thousand dollars for the year, not covered by my scholarship. She didn’t complain. Just signed the form and handed it back with a tired smile that said: Please don’t lose your socks.
Outside, we were split into small groups by dorm and handed lanyards. Ours was led by a senior named Connor — tall, tan, and too good-looking to be real. His polo hugged his frame just right, and his khaki shorts perfectly clung to his hips, tight enough to make it hard not to stare at his round ass when he turned to lead us down the path.
I stared too long. And instantly regretted it.
My stomach twisted as that too-familiar heat spread through my body, fast and automatic, like my hormones had a vendetta against me. I shifted my bag in front of me and looked at the ground, willing it to stop. Wishing my body would just behave like it belonged to me.
Connor smiled with a kind of ease I could never fake. “This campus is big. You’ll get lost. Try not to cry about it.”
A few kids laughed. I didn’t.
We started in the academic quad, where brick buildings trimmed in white stood in rows like sentinels, each one fronted with columns and slate plaques bearing names older than any of us. The science hall smelled faintly of chemicals and floor wax. The humanities building had tall windows and creaky floors, and a narrow staircase I could already tell I’d get sick of.
The dining hall was huge — vaulted ceiling, long wooden tables, big windows that let in too much light. “Three meals a day,” Connor said. “But if you’re in rehearsal or whatever, there’s a Grab-N-Go canteen behind Langley. Sandwiches, snacks, hot dogs, personal pizzas, pop, juices, stuff like that. Open late. You’ll get a code for your meal account next week. No credit cards. Don’t lose it.”
We hit the gym complex, the library, the arts building, and the former chapel, now used for music recitals and sometimes assemblies. Each building had a story. A function. A vibe.
At some point, Connor handed out printed schedules.
World History — first period. Mandarin — third.
Just seeing it made something lift in my chest. Mandarin was the class I’d begged to take since I was eleven. I didn’t know why I liked it so much — maybe the characters, or the sounds, or just the challenge of something no one else around me had ever tried. It felt different in a good way. A way that made sense to me. It would also look great on a college application.
As we walked back toward the quad, a kid beside me started flipping through the extracurriculars packet. There were pages of options — debate, theater, chess, fencing, coding, creative writing, STEM, robotics, and so much more.
One club in particular caught my eye.
Rainbow—Straight Alliance.
I froze, just for a second. It wasn’t a surprise that a school like this had one. But seeing the name printed so plainly, like it was normal, like it belonged here — that did something strange to my stomach. Not fear. Not exactly.
Curiosity. Interest. Longing. And immediately, a kind of shame.
I wasn’t ready for something like that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But at least it let me know that there were others like me out there, and an outlet if I ever really needed it.
We were dismissed after that — free time until the welcome assembly at dinner. Some kids scattered right away. Others grouped off, clearly already orbiting around each other like planets in a system I wasn’t part of.
I hung back. Then, I turned toward the trees and followed a quiet path away from the noise.
After a while, I looped around and started heading back toward the dorms. The sun had shifted, casting longer shadows across the grass. My packet said to check in with my House Parent before five.
Linden Hall was waiting.
So was Mr. Gordon.
And — probably — my new roommate.
Whoever he was.
I adjusted my bag and kept walking.
***
I found the office by following the sound of someone humming an old Elton John song.
The door was open, a sliver of warm yellow light spilling into the hallway, and behind it sat a man with the kind of presence you felt before you saw him. Mr. Gordon — Mr. G, according to the wooden nameplate — was huge, dressed in khakis and a deep green cardigan, with dark, smiling eyes and a voice that practically hugged you.
He looked up from a stack of folders and grinned. “You must be Nicholas Kincaid.”
“Yes, sir. My friends just call me ‘Nick.’”
“No need for ‘sir.’ Mr. G is just fine.” He motioned me in with a wave that could’ve cleared traffic. “Take a seat.”
His office was part cozy den, part chaotic command center — books, framed photos, a dorm trophy or two, and a well-worn bowl of hard candies on the desk. The air smelled like lemon tea and old wood. The walls were lined with photos of students from years past, all smiling or goofing off in the way that told you this place had history — and heart.
He folded his hands over his stomach and leaned back in his chair. “I’m your House Parent, which means I make sure you’re safe, fed, clean, and not burning anything down. I don’t micromanage, but I do expect respect, and I don’t tolerate nonsense.”
“Yes, of course,” I said quickly.
“Prep is every night, seven to nine. No phones, no distractions. That’s your time to get your work done, ask questions, or just stay caught up. Lights out by 11:00, although I recommend going to bed earlier if you can. Sleep is a real commodity around here. You keep that schedule, and things tend to go smoothly.”
I nodded. “Got it.”
“You’ll get regular academic check-ins. Your mom will be getting reports every few weeks on your academic progress, how you’re adjusting, and all that — but that doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me first if something’s off,” he added, his tone softening. “If you ever need to talk — about anything -- my door’s always open. Not everything has to go in a report, and don’t be embarrassed or shy about talking to me. Believe me, I’ve seen it all over the years.”
The tight knot in my chest gave a little. Just a little.
We stood, and he gestured down the hallway. “Let me give you the nickel tour.”
The common room was first: a long lounge with mismatched couches, a bookshelf full of paperbacks and dusty board games, and a large-screen TV mounted a little crooked above a fireplace that probably hadn’t worked since the Carter administration. “We do movie nights, game nights, the occasional late-night pizza run, and a few trips to town or the lake when the weather cooperates,” Mr. G said. “Optional but encouraged. The dorm becomes your family — you show up, you make memories.”
It sounded nice. But also… like a lot.
He led me past the kitchenette (“keep it clean, label your leftovers”), and the bathrooms, where I peeked in and felt immediate, immense relief. Each stall had a curtain. Private. Contained. No tiled jungle of shared shame.
Mr. G chuckled when he saw the way I lingered. “We learned a long time ago that some boys don’t do great with open showers. You’re not the only one.”
My face flushed, but I smiled. “Thanks.”
“Some guys stay on campus all weekend, some head home now and then. It’s up to you. Depends on how you’re feeling, how you’re settling in, how much homework you’ve got.”
I hadn’t decided yet. It was only ninety minutes home, and I missed my mom more than I thought I would, and especially my dog, Mr. Bojangles. He was my best friend in the whole world. But if this place started to feel right, maybe I’d want to stay.
As we headed back toward the dorm rooms, Mr. G slowed a bit.
“Your roommate — Jack — he’s an old-timer,” he said. “Been here since middle school. Knows the place inside and out. Good kid. Bit eccentric, but smart. Keeps to himself, mostly, but he’ll help you get your bearings.”
Eccentric. That could mean anything.
“Try to give each other some space, but don’t be afraid to talk. You’d be surprised what you’ll learn when you actually ask.”
We stopped outside my door.
“All right, Nick. Take a few minutes to get settled. Dinner’s at six sharp. You’ll sit with the hall tonight — get to know the crew. They’re a good bunch.”
“Thanks,” I said, and I meant it.
He patted the doorframe gently, like he was sealing a deal. “Welcome to Linden.”
He turned and walked off, still humming under his breath.
I stood there a second, my hand on the doorknob. Then I took a breath and opened it.
The first thing I saw was a black duffel folded neatly at the foot of the other bed. Posters were already tacked up on the wall. Books in messy stacks on the desk. A few shirts hung, crooked, in the open wardrobe. Someone had already made himself at home.
And then — him.
He was sitting on his bed, legs stretched out, earbuds in, head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed.
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Unbelievable