The tuna casserole didn't necessarily look appealing, but her eyes needed to look somewhere besides at her dad right now.

"How was your first day?" her dad asked.

Marie tore her gaze from the plate and glanced at her dad. The hopeful enthusiasm in his eyes made her soul whither. She wanted Presley High to work. She wanted to be as enthusiastic as her dad, but it took too much energy.

"Good. Things were good." Her voice was way too high pitched. Marie once again found herself biting down on her lips to keep her nerves at bay. Her dad smiled.

"Really? Was it?"

The last thing she wanted to do was let her dad down, so Marie forced herself to be more relaxed. "Yeah. It was great."

Her mind flashed back to when she ate lunch inside the bathroom. Even her mind was against her. She bent her head and busied herself with eating, so she didn't have to look at her dad.

"Did you make any friends?"

Again, her mind flashed back to Edgar, and how incredibly awkward it was with him. She also remembered how his poem butchered her chances of making friends in English Lit.

"Not yet, but, you know, it is the first day and all. It might take another day or two." Or month. "How was work?" Marie asked, forcing her dad to change the subject.

"Oh, it was good." There was another pause. Marie wondered if her dad needed to hide unpleasantness at work like she was hiding about school.

"What'd you do?" Marie asked.

"Taught kids, changed lives. The usual."

Marie tried to smile as she picked up her cup and drank some water.

"Did you do any singing today?" her dad asked.

Marie slowly set down the cup. "Um, no."

He studied her face with a hint of disbelief. "Your first day and no singing?"

"I sang back up to a few songs." More like three dozen. "I sang my solo nerve song last night."

"Oh."

Silence again. Her dad shoveled the last of his casserole in his mouth. "Well, I have a lesson plan to go over, so I'll be in the other room if you need me. Do you have any homework?"

"Yeah, I have a song to practice for choir. I'm not getting the alto part."

"Alright. Call if you need."

"I will."

Her dad left for the other room. Marie whipped out her phone and started texting Sophie. Her dad had a strict "No texting at the dinner table" rule, but since he was gone, she figured it was fine. They had texted each other non-stop since getting home.

Sophie didn't have the greatest first day either. She had the lofty goal of no one knowing her parents' occupation for a week. She wanted to make friends before anyone found out. At roll call in her first class, the teacher connected the dots that her parents were S.E.A. officials. Before the first class was done, the entire school knew. She was treated like royalty, and almost everyone was too star struck to talk to her. Those who did talk to her had a fake friendliness. It got on her nerves. Sophie wanted friends, not admirers of her parents.

Marie finished her dinner and went to practice the song, still texting Sophie. In the end, Sophie ended up calling, since there was too much to talk about. They could survive until the weekend, then they'd party and forget all their high school problems.

***

The next day there wasn't nearly as much singing. Everyone's first day of school nerves were gone. Marie didn't feel as frightened walking down the halls, and she had hope for the school day. Then she got to her first class, Algebra, and realized they still didn't have a teacher. Another teacher came in with the same old TV. Marie didn't even know there was a video about Math, but apparently there was. She settled into her chair, wondering when the school would hire a teacher for her favorite classes.

The six-minute transition between algebra and dance was when she heard it. Whispers among the students about a "charity case". Someone or a small group of someone's who were attending Presley High, even though they didn't belong. Marie tried not to let panic show on her face, but she wasn't good at acting. How did it leak among the student body? She soon realized it wasn't her biggest concern. She passed a group of boys who were disgusted about a group of stupid people attending their school. Marie turned her emotions off. She couldn't freak out and start singing. If the lyrics didn't clue people in to the fact she was this fabled "charity case," her voice would.

Were there others at Presley High who were part of the experiment? Mr. Machiavelli made it seem like she was it, but now she wasn't sure. If it was a small group, maybe she could find the others and they could have their own friend group.

Dance class was intimidating. She didn't have the grace for it, and her shoes kept changing at will. Why were these shoes mandatory, and why were the shoes expensive?

Marie recognized some people in dance class. One guy she remembered from her awkward literature class, mainly because he was so ridiculously tall. If he hadn't been in that class, she would have introduced herself. She was afraid he'd want to talk about her mother's death. And what if he figured out she was part of the experiment? Maybe he thought she deserved to be kicked out of school.

After going over the introductions, their teacher Mr. Kelly had them try some steps. It got Marie's heart rate up and sweat forming on her brow. She gained comfort knowing she wasn't in anything higher than basic dance.

At lunch Marie peeked inside the cafeteria to make sure no one was singing. Content, she walked over to an empty table and collapsed on the chair, feeling sore from the small amount of dancing they did. She ate her lunch alone, happy to eat on a chair and not a toilet.

In her Freshman writing class she recognized Edgar and tried to sit as far away as possible. She didn't hate him, she simply felt uncomfortable around him. She had Ms. Dickinson again. Marie made sure to find a partner for the introductions, so she wasn't coupled with Edgar. It wasn't nearly as bad this time around.

Seeing friend groups talking and laughing in the halls made her desperate for a friend. She sat down in her final class, freshman theater, and tapped a finger against her desk. She could do this. Simple introduction, that's all.

She turned around to the boy behind her. He had dark brown hair and tired brown eyes, his head slightly bent as he looked at a text on his phone. Marie took a deep breath and got ready to introduce herself.

The classroom door banged open. Marie turned and saw the most curvaceous girl she'd ever seen. The girl, who had to be a senior, took two steps inside before leaning against the wall. She brought her leg up to scratch her ankle, and somehow made the simple move seductive. Marie felt a wave of insecurity threaten to drown her. How on earth could this girl look like a model in their boring school uniform? This girl had to be in the wrong class. This was freshman theater. She certainly wasn't the teacher, because an older, portly man sat at the front desk, checking over papers, seemingly undisturbed by this senior's entrance.

The blonde bombshell continued to walk between the desks, swaying her hips back and forth, until she reached the front of the class. Marie glanced at the boy she was about to introduce herself to. It was no use. He, along with most of the class stared at the girl with open mouths.

"Do you always have to make an entrance, Marilyn?" the teacher asked.

"Entrance?" Even her breathy voice dripped of seduction. "Believe me, Mr. Hitchcock, you would know if I made an entrance."

She gracefully fell onto the prop couch at the front of the class, took out a bottle of hand lotion, and began to apply some to her arms. The class continued to watch her, hypnotized. Marie put her head in her hands. She never felt more self-conscious of her frizzy hair. She straightened it that morning, but dance class all but canceled it.

The bell rang and Marilyn went from applying lotion to her arms to her legs. Marie tried to ignore Marilyn and concentrated on what Mr. Hitchcock said in his introduction. He talked about the basic rules of the class, the expectations, and what kind of projects to look forward too. Mr. Hitchcock's voice was quiet and calm, but not the kind of calm of Mr. Ross's voice. No, this was the quiet calm that rose in Marie an urge to check behind her shoulder to see if someone was creeping up behind her to murder her.

"This is Marilyn Monroe, she's my T.A. She's going to help me with this class, as there is a fair number of you."

If all eyes weren't already on Marilyn, they were now. Marilyn stopped rubbing lotion on herself and was now perfectly posed on the couch, a manicured finger brushed against her ruby red lips. Marie gave a defeated sigh. Marilyn was supposed to be in this class. Marie tried not to hate Marilyn. After all, it wasn't hate Marie felt. It was jealousy. Marilyn was the embodiment of everything Marie feared at Presley High. The grace, the poise, the beauty. Marie felt intimidated, knowing no matter how hard she studied, no matter what they professed, she could never fit in at Presley High.