Nova.

Nova Jean Harvey had the feeling that coming to this new school might not have been the best idea. She had told Lisa that she wasn't comfortable with the idea of transfering, and as her palms sweat and grip the worn leather of her messenger bag, her suspicions are confirmed. She ran a timid tongue over the metal on her teeth, adjusting her glasses.

Nova didn't think that she'd felt like such an outsider in her whole life, and she had the feeling it probably wouldn't get any better. She was the new girl at a small school, and as such, was under a huge microscope she couldn't seem to get out from under.

As Nova wandered through the courtyard towards her promised land, the front doors of her new school, she takes in the students around her. For the most part, it's a swirl of blonde, straight hair, big smiles, giggles, varsity jackets and school spirit. There are the occaisonal batches of loners and couples who are getting in a healthy makeout session before class, and a smattering of color - rich caramels and mahogany, and she doesn't feel so entirely out of place anymore. Except, she kind of does. Kind of.

She continues on though, trying hard not to be so sensitive. Because that's what she was - sensitive. Except, was she? Maybe she was just uncomfortable with her surroundings. Maybe it was because she was the new girl and this was a school full of kids who had all grown up together, had seen each other blossom into young adults, and she was just... there.

Nova takes a deep breath as she stares up at the proud, gleaming black letters above the doors of the school. Saint Violette's Academy. It's supposed to be a good school, carries glowing reviews about "world renown facilities" and "compassionate staff" and "promising students", but Nova's little heart still yearns for the modest hallways of MLK High. It was cold and dark, but familiar, and at least she knew her way around much better there than she did here.

She had only applied at the insistence of her older sister, Lisa, and had no real intentions of following through with being accepted, until they told her that she could get a scholarship to cover her tuition, books, and uniforms, because she was "disadvantaged". Which, Nova muses as she adjusts the strap on her pink and white backpack, she kind of was, given her current circumstances, but she just didn't like feeling like she was being given a pity handout. She wanted to be admitted because of merit, because she was smart and had potential. Not because she would make the school look good.

Not that the kids here would know what that was like. Nova didn’t see what was so wrong with her old school. The books were falling apart. The building was probably days from being condemned by health officials. And okay, the teachers were sub-par. But she’d pick MLK High over this place any day, and that’s saying quite a bit -- at least she’s not stared at like a freak of nature over there like she was at this new school.

Maybe that's a strong phrase. It's not like she's being gawked at, but she does feel like she's drawing some moderate attention. Despite her love for dance and being on stage, this kind of attention feels distinctly different and like it's... wrong. But Nova hopes that it's just the first day of school jitters and all in her head.

She smiles at some who she assumes are fellow classmates, but it feels forced and fake as she struggles with the combination to her locker. She can feel the pressure of being new, of belonging, of fitting in and not being obnoxious or weird or the stereotypical, uneducated girl from Harlem. Nova feels a little more awkward than usual, pocketing her glasses as she brushes her curls out of her face.

The more she searches for a familiar face, just one, the more she sees people sizing her up, trying to stuff her into a mold without even knowing her name. Which, really, happens to all new students at these private, uppity prep schools, so she shouldn't feel so self conscious. Still, she tries to push her hair behind her ears again, keeping it out of her face. (Her curls bounce back, wild and rebellious on the one day she just wishes they'd be tame. Please. Nova's planning on braiding her hair at some point, but she hasn't had time and she's a little too broke at the moment, anyway.)

She isn't sure if the contempt is real or imagined as she walks down to her homeroom - it's a few hallways away, so she's got quite a bit to figure it out. Some people avoid her, some stare, some ignore her, busy with their own friends and lives, and every once in a while, she gets a smile from someone she happens to make eye contact with in her search for the classroom.

Nova repeats to herself that she's okay, that she's safe, that it's not even homeroom and she couldn't have possibly made a bad first impression already, could she? Her uniform is freshly pressed, dry cleaned even. She took it out of the dry cleaner plastic this morning. It's a black blazer and white blouse with the school's crest on it, with plaid green and blue skirt, stockings, and her Mary Janes. Today, her goal is to make one friend. Just one.



Her homeroom teacher is a pleasant young woman by the name of Miss Stone. She's fresh-faced, bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Nova wonders, as she sits down at her desk with her notebooks and pens at the ready, if this is her first year of teaching. Her hair is cropped short, dirty blonde and wet, tucked neatly with red clips. She goes through roll call before the morning annoucements.

It’s all quiet. She honestly feels like she could hear the earth tilt on its' axis and rotate slowly around the sun from how silent the room is. What gives?

Nova still feels the stares of curiosity and interest on her back. By the time she had gotten here, the only empty seats left had been those near the front of the room, in front of Miss Stone's desk. So that's where Nova's been sitting for the last ten minutes, listening to names and trying to acquaint them with voices. The school was pretty small, and she was sure she was bound to run into some of these kids again. She's never been to a school so small, and she's kind of looking forward to getting to know people beyond just a random face in the hall.

“Is there anybody whose name I didn’t call?” Miss Stone asks, looking up from her sheet. Nova looks at her and raises her hand timidly. Miss Stone asks her to come to her desk with her schedule. When she gets up, she hears it—a cacophony of hushed whispers and quiet questions about who she is, where she's from, if anyone knows her out of school. She tries to ignore it because she wants to think that she’s being ridiculous.

Nova is, right? Because people can't be like that anymore, this isn't the sixties and she doesn't live down south. Things are different now. Nova wants to believe so desperately that things are different, but she fears in her heart that they aren't.

“Are you lost, sweetheart?” Miss Stone asks. “This class is for kids on the college track,” she says, enunciating her words slowly. Nova frowns, making a small face. That was the track she'd chosen on her application and when she picked her classes, so she wasn't sure where the discrepancy lied.

“I’m not lost.” Nova hands her the crisp schedule from her neat stack of notebooks and folders (her sister felt like buying new school supplies to celebrate). Miss Stone’s clear grey eyes run over it quickly, scanning it for the information she wanted. She can see the embarrassed flush on Miss Stone’s face after a beat. They share a bashful smile.

“Oh. You’re that new transfer.” She sits down at her desk and scribbles something into her roll book. “It’s lovely to meet you, dear. If you need anything, you know where to find me.” She smiles that pretty pearly white smile that would make toothpaste commercial models jealous and then tells Nova she can sit.

Nova walks back to her seat awkwardly, all eyes on her again. She meets a friendly smile, or two, but she's a little too bashful to smile back, so she resigns herself to arranging the notebooks in her backpack.

It’s going to be a long day.



Her skin crawls. It's been crawling all day, but it's especially bad here, in the stuffy, pretentious cafeteria. The walls are pretty and cream, tables heavy wood and circular with nice comfy seats. None of them are carved, none of them are drawn on and falling apart. Nova is rather fond of it. It seems nice, open and spacious. There are large windows against the wall that let in the midday sun. It's pretty, Nova notes, but she still feels anxious and uncomfortable.

The cafeteria is loud. It’s not nearly as loud as MLK, though, where everybody was loud and boisterous and jumping out of their seats. No, but it’s still pretty loud. Most of it is buzz about ‘that new colored girl’ (also known as Nova). She tries to ignore it, but because of her last name, Harvey, she ends up sitting in the front of all her classes, so that’s all she hears.

She hasn’t spoken to a single soul, and already rumors are flying loose. She wonders if she’s done something wrong. Wonders if she’s broken some unspoken rule of conduct, or if she’s committed some other unpardonable sin in the eyes of the young elite of this school? Nova doesn't want to be popular, but she does want to get along with everyone. But it's kind of hard to do when the only people that have spoken to her today are a few brave souls who introduced themselves.

What has she done?

Nova hopes to make a friend during lunch, or at least find someone from one of her classes to sit with. No one wants to sit alone at lunch on the first day of school. Unfortunately, Nova can't find anyone during her quick scan of the lunch room, so she tells herself that sitting alone really isn't that bad. Except it totally is, and it sucks, and she wishes that she wouldn't have to.

She walks into the lunch line and there’s an almost visible bubble of space around her, as if she has some communicable disease or a killer flu that is just waiting to infect other healthy students. She sniffs herself discreetly. She smells like flowers and soap. She’s clean. She’s quiet.

Nova honestly refuses to believe there is really all this fussing going on just because she’s not…white. She doesn’t like jumping to conclusions, especially one like that. She refuses to. It doesn’t make any sense, especially in this day and age. People are different, especially here. Everyone seems to be into new age ideals of love and acceptance, so what's the big deal?

The lunch today is slop—’chicken alfredo a la carte’—with more slop—‘lime green gelatin’—and even more slop—’mashed potatoes and assorted vegetables’. It costs her ninety-five cents, an alarming price compared to MLK’s fifty cent lunch. Granted, MLK served barely passable lunches, so maybe these extra forty cents bought her something that was actually edible.

Nova holds her tray self-consciously as she walks out into the cafeteria. She thinks that there has to be at least one more person like herself here. And while she does spot a couple of girls of color, they seem engrossed in conversations that don't involve Nova, and she's loathe to budge her way into a conversation that has nothing to do with her.

Nova feels like a bright pink elephant as she walks through the busy room, trying to find an empty table. She hates that she even thinks that way, because she instinctively wants to believe that everyone is better than that, but she's slowly starting to believe that she might not fit in as well as she initially anticipated.

She walks slowly, trying to find somewhere to sit. But everywhere she turns, there’s a suddenly ‘saved’ seat or a lack of chairs or a simple and rude ‘no’. Where exactly is she meant to sit? Nova smiles politely and excuses herself every time, finding it more and more difficult to not throw her tray down and just huff out.

Out of nowhere, she trips—again—and falls, spilling the fancy slop all over herself. The culprit is a chair that was just very conveniently pushed into her way. Or maybe Nova just didn't notice it? Maybe. She's accident prone. Nova's face burns as the whole entire room erupts in laughter, everyone's eyes focused on her and her sudden misfortune. Nova feels so embarassed she could die, really.

She gets up and runs.

She runs fast and the laughs carry her out and into the hallway.

Nova will not cry.



Gym offers no respite.

The story of what happened during lunch has only gotten worse, and in the locker room, all she hears are whispers and giggles about it. The girls stare, Nova stares at her locker, and pretends that she can't hear them. She listens to some music instead, telling herself that she can't shake and she can't bow down and just take it. She's better than this, isn't she? She is. Nova changes out of her stained clothes quickly and slips into a sweatshirt and her shorts, then quickly ties her tennis shoes.

On the walk outside, Nova smiles. The sun is out, the clouds are puffy and soft, and the sky is a deep blue. For a moment, she feels the only semblance of peace she's felt all day.

She’s the first girl out on the track. She sits on the bleachers awkwardly, knees pressed together as she leans forward a little and waits for their instructor to come out. The boys all sit on the other side, some staring and some absorbed in their own conversations too much to pay her much mind. Nova is silently relieved, and feels a little more at ease when a girl with a pretty pink scarf on her head sits next her and introduces herself as Amani.

Maybe things are turning up. Or at least, Nova hopes.