Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I shouldn't even have been nervous. Sure, I was sitting in a new school for the first time, totally by myself, waiting to be judged, but class wasn't even in session. In fact, school didn't start until tomorrow morning.

"Just a quick meeting with the school counselor, and then you can go home," I muttered under my breath.

And now I was talking to myself. Awesome.

My fingers picked absently at the loose threads in my ripped jeans. I glanced at the clock in the office again, internalizing a groan. My right leg bounced impatiently, the heels of my heavy, black boots thudding against the floor four times a second, the wood of the old chair I was sitting on creaking when I shifted every ten seconds, my eyes darting back to the clock every four…

"Miss Bennet."

I jumped, my head snapping to the right to see the guidance counselor of Beacon Hills High School peering out from her office. She seemed nice enough: young, with long black hair and a neatly ironed pantsuit. She raised an eyebrow at my startled reaction, her mouth quirked up in amusement.

Great. And now the guidance counselor thought I was crazy.

"Uh, yeah," I managed with a shaky laugh. "That's me. Obviously…"

"I'm Ms. Morrell," she greeted, stepping further into the room and offering her hand.

I scrambled to my feet, pulling my purse onto my shoulder and accepting the handshake enthusiastically. "Sadie, hi. Thanks so much for seeing me."

"Of course. Are you ready?"

"Yeah! Yeah, absolutely."

Ms. Morrell's counselor office looked almost exactly the same as the one at my last school. There were bookshelves packed to the brim with psychology books, degrees framed on the wall, cheesy motivational posters. I could've sworn that the patient chair was the exact same one, shipped here just to haunt me. Maybe all guidance counselors had to order out of the same catalogue. And therapists, for that matter.

"So, Sadie," Ms. Morrell began, settling in behind her desk. "Why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself?"

"Oh, sure. Um…"

I bit my lip, wondering where to begin. Ms. Morrell was reviewing an open file on her desk, which was almost definitely my transcript. Even though I didn't have anything to hide, the thought of someone reading it made me nervous. I shifted around in the chair, and it squeaked just like the one in the hall.

"You may was well practice now," Ms. Morrell said, looking up from the pages with a knowing smile. "I'm sure you'll be asked constantly tomorrow."

I grimaced. The prospect of being attacked by questions from students and teachers all day was already making me nauseous.

"Okay, well, my name's Sadie Bennet. I'm a sophomore, new to Beacon Hills. My favorite subject is English, I like to think I'm pretty creative, and I spend entirely too much time on my computer."

"Nicely done," Ms. Morrell laughed. "I think you'll do just fine tomorrow."

I laughed along politely, trying desperately to pretend that her reassurance had helped in any way at all.

"So how do you like Beacon Hills so far?"

"It's nice," I answered simply. "I'm really enjoying myself. I didn't live far from here, so it's not a huge change or anything. Plus, we moved at the beginning of the summer, so I've had a little time to adjust."

"And why did your family decide to move?"

Ah. And there it was. I felt my smile becoming fixed. I was very tempted to reply, "I'm pretty sure that reason is bolded in that stupid file in front of you," but managed to hold my tongue. Instead, I played along, giving Morrell the answer I knew she wanted. I'd had a decent amount of practice.

"My father died a few months ago, and my mom and I wanted a fresh start. That and, uh…we couldn't really afford to keep living in the same house with just my mom's salary…"

Ms. Morrell nodded and, while she didn't write anything down, seemed pleased by the open answer.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did your father die?"

I licked my lips, swallowing another snappy reply, fingers picking once again picking at my jeans. "He was a security guard. At a bank. There was a robbery, and he uh…he was shot on the job…"

"I see. I'm so sorry for your loss."

I nodded mechanically, the response just as scripted as Morrell's condolences. I'm sorry for your loss. I'd head those words so many times over the last few months, I'd started to hate them. But Ms. Morrell was one of the very few people who actually sounded like they meant it.

"Were you close with your father?" she asked, picking up her pen.

"Kinda," I said with a shrug. "I don't know. We had a normal relationship. We'd team up and tease my mom, he'd scream at me for talking back, joke with me and remind me he was proud of me. He was gone a lot because of work, but he always tried to make up for it. Even when we clashed, he always tried to make me smile, or get me the toy I wanted, or do what was best for me. I loved him. I—I still love him…"

I nodded to myself at the correction.

"And how's your relationship with your mother?" Ms. Morrell continued.

That one was an easier answer, and my face broke into a smile.

"We're really, really close. She works from home, so I'm kind of around her twenty-four-seven. It's made the move a lot easier, too, so…she's always been there for me. I think for the most part we're pretty similar, so she understands me most of the time. I mean, we fight and whatever, but just normal stuff. She's like one of my best friends…wow"—I winced the moment the words left my mouth—"sorry, that sounded like such a cheesy lie, um…"

"No, that's good to hear," Ms. Morrell assured me. "It's important that you have each other to lean on. How has your mother been handling your father's passing?"

"She's doing the best she can. I mean, they fought a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Sometimes about his job, sometimes about bills, family, television, everything. But they still loved each other, you know? I know she's devastated. She—she still cries sometimes, or just gets really quiet. Like she's just going over all the times they fought over and over and wishing they'd gotten along better, or said 'I love you' and 'be safe' more often. Like, said it and really meant it, not just saying it out of habit when he left…"

"Is that how you feel?"

I looked up to find Ms. Morrell peering at me over my file. She'd phrased it as a question, but her dark eyes confirmed that it was anything but. I glanced at the pen again, poised over a page of notes on my life, and clammed up. I shrugged and let my eyes fall to the edge of the desk.

"You can't change the past, Sadie," Ms. Morrell said soothingly. "It's natural to focus on the mistakes we've made, but it sounds like you and your father shared plenty of great memories, too."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened," I sighed, prompting Ms. Morrell to raise her eyebrows. I smiled sheepishly. "Uh…my last guidance counselor."

"Well, it's good advice. You should take it."

"I will. Eventually. It's just hard because he's only been gone a few months. And it just blindsided me because—my dad, he used to be a cop, and his dad was a cop, and his whole family. He went to the police academy straight out of high school, and then…when I was twelve, he quit the force."

"Any particular reason?"

I shrugged, thinking about the arguments that had raged between my mom and dad, then the fights he'd waged against my grandfather, the late nights he'd spent drinking in the dining room, pouring over cases, newspapers, borrowed files…

"I guess he felt like…he wasn't helping. He just woke up one day and realized it wasn't what he wanted to do with his life."

"And did he find out?" Ms. Morrell asked. "What he wanted to do?"

"Be a pilot," I said, unable to hide a smile. "He figured it might be a little late, but…he was saving up and taking classes."

"And that's why he took the job at the bank."

I nodded, fighting the bitter taste in my mouth.

"Mom and I used to be so worried about him when he was working, so when he quit it was like—it was like finally being able to breathe. His safety wasn't hanging over our heads every day. And just when we thought it was over…"

My words dried up. I didn't want to talk about it anymore. So I didn't. I glanced at Ms. Morrell again, sure her pen would be flying across the page, but instead found her waiting patiently with her hands folded in front of her. She made no move to interrupt or prompt me in any way. Evidently, not talking any more wasn't an option.

I cleared my throat and sat up a little straighter.

"I think I'm feeling relatively normal. I mean, considering. It's obviously gonna take time for me to…adjust to life without him, and I'll always miss him, but…I don't really feel like I'm drowning anymore. At least, not every day. It's been better since we moved. I miss my old house, but I'm not far from my friends and…it's kind of nice to be living somewhere where I don't see my dad all around me. Well—I mean, I have pictures, but I mean—I used to walk into the living room, and I'd still expect to see him on the couch, yelling at my mom to move out of the way so he could see the television, or throwing pillows around so he could find the remote. Now when I walk into the living room, it's…just a living room…so I don't need to think about him as much if I don't want to. It's just new."

Ms. Morrell stared at me with a placid expression. "Well, it sounds like you're remarkably well adjusted."

I could feel my lips tugging upwards in an attempt to smile, but they were trembling too much to manage it. Even though my words had been calm and collected, at some point I'd started to cry again. I hurriedly wiped my face, something Morrell pretended not to notice as she pushed on.

"You're right. It's completely natural to continue grieving, and you'll handle that in different ways over time. But for now, it seems like you're dealing with it very, very well. How has the move been overall? Are you transitioning well?"

I leapt gratefully at the subject change.

"Yeah, no, the move's been fine. My mom and I moved in with one of her high school friends who had some extra space. It's been…weird, living with new people, but…it kind of helps too. It we'd moved into an apartment, I would've spent so much time worrying about Mom, spending every day alone while I was at school. Now it's like we always have company, so we have to pull ourselves together."

"Who lives in the house with you now?"

"The Martins—my mom's friend, Natalie, and her daughter, Lydia."

"And you feel comfortable there?"

"Yeah. I mean, pretty much. It's…different, for sure. Their house is a lot bigger, and cleaner, and fancier. Natalie just got through a rough divorce, so I figure her and my mom distract each other. I guess that's what they wanted for Lydia and me, since we're in similar situations."

"And how would you describe your relationship with Lydia."

"Well…have you ever seen Wicked?"

Ms. Morrell quirked an eyebrow at my growing smile. "No, but I'm familiar."

"That's me and Lydia," I chuckled. "Glinda and Elphaba."

"Would you mind…elaborating?"

"Well, when my mom and I first moved in, Lydia wasn't thrilled to say the least. Hell, I wasn't thrilled. I'd just lost my dad, and all I wanted to do was lock myself in my room for the rest of eternity, and instead I ended up living with…well. Lydia and I are very, very different people."

"How so?"

"Lydia's lucky, I guess," I said wistfully. "She's absolutely gorgeous, queen bee, jock boyfriend, boys fawning over her, rich parents. She had the perfect life dropped in her lap, and…that's never happened to me."

"Do you resent her for that?" Ms. Morrell asked keenly.

"No. Well, yeah, sometimes," I added dismissively. "Lydia can be bitchy and shallow and super judgmental, but she's also really smart and…I also think she's kind of lonely. I mean, she gets all this attention, but she doesn't have a lot of good friends. Then her parents split up and she had to choose who to live with, which I can't even imagine…"

I shook my head, refocusing the train of thought.

"The point is, I think we both kind of needed someone. And we're different, but we work. Actually, Lydia's probably one of the best friends I've ever had."

"I'm glad to hear that," Ms. Morrell replied, and again, the plain answer sounded genuine. "Is she helping you settle in and get ready for the school year?"

"Um…I guess you could say that…" It was hard to keep the laughter out of my voice. "She kind of made it her own personal project to prepare me for Beacon Hills—at least, prepare me the way she thinks I should be prepared. So it's been a lot of shopping trips and makeovers and meet and greets with the lacrosse team and some of her other popular friends. I know it's her way of being nice, but uh…it can be a little overwhelming, if I'm honest."

"Well, Sadie, you seem very honest to me." Ms. Morrell leaned forward on her desk with a polite smile. "By all accounts, I'd say you're prepared for your first day. Are you excited?"

My stomach lurched again, but I countered my gag reflex with a bright smile. "Yeah! Nervous-excited."

"That's a good place to start. You seem like a very personable girl, and you've already got good grades and some good friends. It sounds like you're healing fine on your own, and you've got a great support system in place, but if you ever feel that you need to talk about your loss or your transition, please don't hesitate to make an appointment. And I want to thank you for being so honest with me," she added with a pointed look. "I understand that new starts are difficult, and you may not feel that others understand your pain, but I'm glad you're strong enough to share your thoughts."

I nodded again with a mannerly smile, feeling like a very obedient bobble-head. "Thank you again for seeing me, Ms. Morrell."

"My pleasure. Good luck tomorrow."

More than ready to go, I collected my things, happy to be rid of the uncomfortable chair. I was already halfway out the door when I stopped, sticking my head back into the office. "Ms. Morrell?"

The woman looked up from her desk, where she'd already begun to scrawl words onto the pages in the file, detailing my soul in black ink. I pursed my lips.

"This—this meeting isn't actually protocol for new students, is it?"

Ms. Morrell opened and closed her mouth once, before evidently deciding to tell the truth.

"No."

"I figured. Thanks again, Ms. Morrell."

"Goodbye, Miss Bennet."

Resigned, I closed the door behind me. Yeah, thanks Mom. General orientation, my ass.

I ventured out into the hallway, digging around through my purse until I finally unearthed my cellphone. Judging by the time, Mom would probably still be in the middle of her conference call, which limited my options. Crossing my fingers, I opened a new text to Lydia.

"Can you pick me up from my meeting at school?"

It was a slim possibility, but I idled in the hall, praying against the odds. But praying didn't seem to be working. Lydia's reply came only a minute later, short and to the point.

"I'm painting my nails."

"I can wait?"

"Jackson's at school for lacrosse practice and gets out in literally like 2 seconds. Just ask him 4 a ride. C U when U get home. We've still got LOTS of work to do! :) xx"

I groaned at the dismissal, slumping against the wall of lockers. I did not want to text Jackson Whittemore. More than anything, I did not want to text Jackson Whittemore. Sure, he could be nice enough. He had to be, because I was friends with Lydia, and he couldn't risk Lydia being mad at him. The three of us had spent a lot of time together over the summer, enough to convince me that somewhere deep down, under all that tough boy exterior, there was some semblance of a genuinely nice person.

Unfortunately, that person only seemed to surface when he was alone with Lydia. Most of the time, Jackson seemed annoyed by everyone around him. I didn't want to risk pissing him off right before the first day of school, but I didn't really have a lot of options.

Regretting the conversation already, I scrolled through my contacts to pull up my text chain with Jackson, which was mostly ride requests and one word responses. What was one more to add to the pile?

"Hey Jackson. Could you text me when you get out of lacrosse practice? Kinda need a ride. Sorry."

Needless to say, Jackson took a lot longer to reply than Lydia had promised. I'd figured as much. As soon as I texted him, I'd found a corner of the hallway where I could tuck myself away and slump down to the floor, putting on my headphones and playing mindless games on my phone. It was probably another twenty minutes before I got the notification. For all the effort I put into being nice, Jackson had still replied with one word: "Done."

I rolled my eyes at the supremely unhelpful response.

"Cool. Do you think you could drive me back to Lydia's?"

"Not when you look like that."

I frowned, looking up and down the hallway, but there were no teenage boys in sight. I could never tell if he was joking or not. Jackson always had a sort of hot-and-cold, insult-based humor—a bad side effect that came with his overconfidence and good looks, in my opinion—but I wouldn't have put it past him to make me walk home if it meant protecting his reputation. Even if his rude, alpha-man routine was an act, it was one he kept up with no exceptions—not even for friends and girlfriends.

Frustrated, I smashed out another reply.

"Please? You're coming over to see her anyway, and she'll be super pleased she didn't have to leave because you offered to drive me home."

I wrinkled my nose in distaste, even as I pressed send. I hated pleading, but I also knew that pulling the Lydia card was the fastest way to get him to cooperate. And lo and behold, my answer came another five minutes later.

"You've got two minutes to make yourself presentable."

"Jackass," I whispered as I replied.

"Thank you! :) See you in a bit!"

Shoving my phone back into my bag, I stood and stretched out my limbs. I made it all of two steps toward the exit, then stopped and pivoted toward the closest bathroom. He was probably joking about looking presentable, but my anxiety told me to check myself anyway.

The light in the girls' room didn't do anyone any favors. Neither did the old, warped mirrors that lined the walls. Thankfully, my reflection was exactly the way I'd left it this morning. I ran my fingers through my hair, still not used to the sleek, brunette curls that swung around my shoulders. My hair used to be down past my hipbones, but the first place Lydia had taken me upon enacting Project Sadie Bennet was the hair salon. My hair was a lot healthier now, but I still did a double take in the mirror sometimes.

I reached into my purse and pulled out the makeup bag Lydia was now forcing me to carry around at all times for emergencies. I still didn't understand what constituted "an emergency," but I was glad I'd be able to fix my eyeliner after crying in the counselor's office. Lydia had spent the better part of the summer putting me through makeup drills, things like what color foundation to use in each season, the shade and placement of blush, how to keep your eyes still when applying eyeliner, and her favorite lesson, God-Sadie-please-just-put-the-lipstick-on-I-promise-it-will-look-great.

Even after I'd fixed my makeup, I couldn't shake the nervous flutter in my stomach. I tried fluffing my hair again, tucking in my T-shirt, then untucking my T-shirt and pushing up my boobs, but nothing helped. I hated worrying so much about how I looked, what other people might think. Back in Menlo Park, everyone already knew me, so it didn't really matter what I wore. Now, faced with starting a new school, I'd never thought so much about my appearance in my life. It was exhausting. Hopefully I would never have to move again.

Deciding that this was as good as it was going to get, I marched back down the hallway, just in time to hear the clamor and chatter of the lacrosse team.

Naturally, Jackson was at the head of the group. Even fresh out of practice, he managed to look frustratingly attractive, with his dirty blond hair spiked up, his head held high, and his prominent jawline and cheekbones casting sharp shadows on his face. His narrow eyes scanned the hallway before finding me on the stairs. He gave me a routine onceover, then a minuscule jerk of his head. Approval.

I wish I could say that I didn't feel relieved. But Ms. Morrell had just called me honest.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and, trying desperately not to look desperate, jogged to join the crowd moving toward the parking lot.

"Hey, boys," I greeted, falling into stride next to their leader.

There was a general reply of "Hey, Sadie," "What's up, Sadie," and of course, nothing but silence from Jackson.

"What are you doing here?" asked Danny, his face popping up over my shoulder.

Danny Mahealani was by far my favorite boy on the lacrosse team. Where Jackson was eighty-five percent douchebag and fifteen percent actual human being, his best friend seemed to be a lovely person through and through. Danny was polite and kind and funny, and as all nice, attractive, available guys seemed to be, gay. Still, I was ready to consider him my patron saint. He'd single-handedly saved me from a torturous summer of being Lydia and Jackson's third wheel, and for that, I was eternally grateful.

"Just exploring," I dismissed. I was not about to broadcast the fact that my mother wanted my mental health assessed before school started up. "Figured I'd drop my books off at my locker, look for my classrooms."

"Sadie, you're friends with the lacrosse team," Tommy Heifer scoffed, as if that had some correlation to the possibility of getting lost in school.

"Besides," added the voice of Dylan Peters, somewhere in the back of the group, "a hot piece of ass like you isn't gonna have any trouble getting a little assistance."

I tossed my hair in my best impression of Lydia, then held up my middle finger for good measure. "No one needs assistance from a horn dog like you, Peters."

I was satisfied to hear a round of laugher behind me, a few players jumping in to rub salt in the wound.

"I like your jeans," Danny offered, kindly sweeping me into a side conversation as the rest of the boys rabbled behind us. "Kinda surprised Lydia let you keep them."

"Trust me, she's lying in wait," I snorted. "Today is my last day of freedom, and she's burning them tomorrow."

"So you're getting Lydia-fied."

"Haven't you heard? I've already been Lydia-fied. My makeover is practically complete."

"Too bad she couldn't fix your personality," Jackson grumbled.

I rolled my eyes as we pushed through the doors and stepped out into the parking lot.

"Shut up, Jackson. You know you love it."

This earned me a deep glare of loathing from Jackson, and a loud guffaw from Danny. Both made me smirk.

"Okay, maybe not love, but some part of you likes me a little bit. Admit it. I'm a breath of fresh air."

"Air doesn't talk this much," Jackson said tersely. "Just get in the Porsche."

He walked off without waiting for a response, stalking toward his shining, silver sports car. I bit the inside of my cheek, maintaining my straight face. I just never seemed to win with Jackson—not when I insulted him, not when I complimented him, not when I joked around. The only thing left to do was evaporate into nothingness.

"Hey," Danny said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Ignore him. You're gonna be fine. You already know a bunch of us, and you've got my number if you need something, okay?"

I nodded, forcing myself to take a deep breath. "Yeah. Thanks, Danny."

"No problem. Good luck."

I waved goodbye to the lingering members of the team, trying not to think about how much luck I really needed.

The first few minutes of the drive were silent. Jackson kept his eyes on the road, jaw clenched as he sped down the streets at twice the speed limit. I tried in vain to entertain myself by counting the number of stop signs he blew. When the number got too high for my personal liking, I turned to face him.

"So, how was practice?"

"How do you think it went?"

His tone condemned me for asking such a stupid question, but it wasn't any more rude than he normally was, so I pressed on.

"I think it probably went swimmingly," I replied, leaning back comfortably into the cushioned seat. "I just figured you'd never pass up the chance to gloat about your mad skills."

And there it was: a tiny twitch of his lips, the annoyed yet amused expression that all but confirmed that while Jackson hardly looked at me, he could appreciate my attitude. Occasionally.

"What can I say?" was his simple, smug reply.

"So, you guys definitely have the championship in the bag?"

"So long as there aren't too many injuries, and that asses that are warming the bench stay there. There's no way we're not winning. It's our fourth year in a row."

"And I'm sure our heroic captain will lead the army to another bloody victory." He shot me a quick glare, but it was the only repercussion I got for my cheek. "So, what positions do you think it's most important to keep first string in?"

"First line," he corrected through clenched teeth.

Then he was off, detailing each of the positions, who was playing in each position, and essentially who he could afford to lose. As he rambled, he allowed himself to relax into a position with only one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally gesturing to get a point across—a good sign.

One of the few perks Jackson got by hanging out with me was the chance to talk endlessly about lacrosse without being interrupted, questioned, or glared at in annoyance—Lydia's typical response. I was happy to let him ramble himself hoarse if it meant I didn't have to contribute to the conversation. It kept Jackson happy and, on the rare occasion that I listened to him, I actually learned something. Football had been "the sport" at my last school, something Jackson found scandalous and appalling. He pretended to be annoyed by my ignorance, but he clearly enjoyed talking about the sport to someone new. Or at the very least, having the upper hand in the conversation.

We pulled into the Martins' driveway, where Jackson was finally distracted from his lecture.

"Dude, you still don't have a car?"

He parked his Porsche neatly in the space behind Lydia's black VW Beetle. Beside them was Natalie's glossy red Mercedes, and in front of that, my mother's tan minivan.

"Mom works from home," I said, shrugging as I climbed out of the car. "I could take the van to school if I wanted."

Jackson eyed the van warily, as if it harbored some disgusting disease deadly only to lacrosse captains.

"Oh, come on, she's not that bad!" I patted the van lovingly on the hood. "We've had her forever, but she's super reliable and great for driving groups."

Jackson wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, don't bring that thing to school."

He turned on his heel, which gave me the perfect opportunity to stick my tongue out at his back.

No sooner had I closed the front door than I was attacked by a natural force of strawberry blonde.

"Hey there!" Lydia greeted, tugging me into an attempt at a hug. Her wrists dug awkwardly into my back as she attempted to squeeze the air out of my lungs without smudging her fresh nail polish.

I was rescued by Jackson, who grabbed Lydia by the hips and spun her into a kiss. I dutifully averted my eyes, but it didn't save me from the obnoxiously loud sound of them sucking face. By the time I finished taking off my boots, Lydia was already dragging him up the stairs toward her room.

"Don't think I forgot about you, missy!" she called over her shoulder. "I only got to start looking at outfit choices for you tomorrow, and we've still got to do your nails! Lots of work to do!"

There was no time to protest. Lydia and Jackson had already disappeared around the corner in a swirl of giggles and strawberry blonde curls. I deflated, and gave them a thirty second head start before heading to my allotted room.

Even after several months of living with the Martins, I was hesitant to call it "my bedroom." Natalie had given me free rein to decorate, supplied anything and everything I requested. It was almost too perfect at times. The walls were painted a pale purple, with a matching plush carpet that spanned the room. Two windows looked out into the backyard, and underneath, I had painted sprigs of purple flowers sprouting up from the molding. It had given me something to do in my first few weeks, when I was eager for an excuse to be alone.

The bed was built into an alcove in the wall, with purple curtains hung alone the edge, giving it the look of a stage and the function of a canopy bed. There was a spacious, L-shaped desk, a vanity, a dresser, two closest, and frankly, more space than I knew what to do with on most days.

Today, Lydia had elected to use up most of the floor space by laying out different outfits plucked from my freshly purchased wardrobe. The sight made me smile. Lydia was a force to be reckoned with. The "transformation," as she would call it, was not optional. But annoying and overbearing as Lydia could be, I knew that she was trying. It was just her strange, twisted way of showing that she cared, welcoming me into her life the only way she knew how. And at the moment, I was so tired of worrying about my first impression that I was happy to let someone take the wheel.

I collapsed in a chair behind the desk, opening my laptop and cycling through social media sites. I replied to a few good luck messages on Facebook, most of them from new friends. I tried to swallow my disappointment. I'd lost a good number of friends when my dad died. People had pulled away to give me space, then never returned to give me support. I knew some of the blame lay with me; I'd been distancing myself to make the break easier, shutting people out so I wouldn't need to talk about it. Even if my friends had forced their way in, I had no idea what I wanted them to say. It wasn't fair to blame them for not knowing either.

The only one who'd stayed remotely close was Briana, my closest friend since elementary school dance classes. I sent her a quick update about my day, and allowed her to gush about the potential of being friends with so many hot lacrosse boys. In return, Briana sent me a few updates from home, babbling about meaningless gossip and supportively bashing the few people who had abandoned me.

A knock on the door interrupted my conversation, and I looked up to find my mother's sharp face and black waves of hair peeking inside.

"Can I come in?" she asked with a small smile.

I shrugged and returned to scrolling around the internet. Still, I listened as Mom closed the door and began to wander around the room, picking her way through the minefield of clothing on the floor. She tutted and hummed approval at different outfits, flattened the sheets on the undisturbed bed, and finally sighed into the silence.

"You know, I just can't get over how good your room looks," she offered, raising her arms to the walls as if to remind us that's where we were. "You did such a great job on those flowers."

"Thanks," I replied, not looking up from the screen.

I could feel her watching me, but was stubbornly avoiding her gaze. I just let her sweat it out, hovering for a few moments before she took another stab.

"I see Lydia's helping you pick out an outfit. Any decisions yet?"

"Nope."

"…are you excited?"

"Ecstatic."

Mom didn't bother hiding her sigh of frustration. Abandoning pretense, she perched herself on the bed and fixed me with a pointed look that I felt more than saw. "How was the orientation meeting today?"

"Oh, you mean the poorly disguised assessment of my mental health? Fine."

There was a beat of silence, broken only by my relentless, determined typing. Finally—

"I'm sorry."

Mom sighed, head sinking into her hands. Her voice was so weary that I immediately froze with guilt; I was still annoyed, but I hated seeing her upset.

"Come here," Mom beckoned, patting the space beside her.

Slowly, I obeyed. I heaved myself out of my chair and shuffled over to the bed, perching on the edge of the mattress just like Mom had. The moment I was seated, I was enveloped in a warm hug.

"I'm sorry," Mom repeated, her face pressed into my shoulder. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I know. I'm sorry, too."

We stayed that way for a while, swaying back and forth with our arms wrapped around each other. I tried to give her a reassuring squeeze.

"But you'll be happy to hear that Ms. Morrell thinks I'm 'remarkably well adjusted.'"

"Of course you are," she chuckled. "I'm glad."

I bit my lip, lifting my head and pulling farther out of the embrace. "What about you?"

Mom sighed; she ran a hand through her hair, the same way I always did when I was distressed.

"Holding it together. That doctor Nat recommended has been helping a bit, but…I miss your dad."

I pulled her into another hug, resting my head in the crook of her neck. "I miss him too. And we'll never stop. We just need time and then…we can stop feeling so sad all the time, and just remember the good things."

"Wow," Mom said with a watery laugh. "Is that something Ms. Morrell told you today?"

"Actually, that's something I told her."

"Well, you are remarkably well adjusted."

She shook my knee playfully, and I laid my hand on top on top of hers. "Hey. I promise if I need it, I'll go back to talk to her or come and talk to you."

"I know. I know you will. You're a smart girl. I love you."

"I love you too, Mom."

We smiled, soaking in the moment of peace, before Mom snatched my hands with a bright smile.

"So! How are you going to do your nails if you haven't picked an outfit yet?"

"I don't know. That's Lydia's job."

"Of course, you should probably just go with a neutral color. I always say, French nails match everything, and then you don't need to worry about it every day. Come on!"

"Mom…"

"No, come on," she insisted, pulling me to my feet and ushering me over to the vanity. "Lydia's going to be wrapped up in her boyfriend for a while. Put on some music and let your mother do your nails."

I knew better than to argue, and to be honest, I didn't really want to.

We spent the next two hours working on my nails, a manicure that extended into a pedicure when Mom insisted that I needed to match. I told her all about the meeting at school, my conversation with Briana, and Lydia's plans for me the next day. Mom talked about her day, too, mostly about the latest audiobook she was listening to, and a little about how her own therapy sessions had been going. If it weren't for the too-big purple bedroom, it might've felt like a regular old school night from any previous year.

By the time Natalie got home from work, by the time Jackson was sent home, by the time we'd all eaten dinner and I'd finally showered and soaked and blow dried my hair, it was too late for Lydia to cause too much of a hassle. She spent twenty minutes cycling through the outfit fragments on the bedroom floor before she threw her arms up in defeat.

"Fine! There's just not enough time to do this now. I'll think about it before I fall asleep, and I'm sure the perfect outfit will hit me like a Hummer when I wake up. You"—she rounded on me, as if it was my fault time was moving so quickly—"blue bottle of moisturizer on your face in ten minutes, glass of water, and then bed. I need you well-rested and ready to turn some heads tomorrow morning."

Despite the irritating, demanding words, I grinned and lifted my hand in a mock salute. "Will do, ma'am."

Lydia relaxed, just ever so slightly, and swept me up into another hug before sashaying from the room. "Goodnight, Sadie. Don't fret! You're going to be amazing tomorrow. Trust me."

"Always, Lyd."

Now, at the very end of the day, I finally got a few moments to myself. I sat on the bed with the curtains drawn, protected from the rest of the world—just me, my sheets, and the décor on my walls. There were pennants from my schools in both Menlo Park and Beacon Hills, pictures of my old friends and my new ones, posters of my favorite television shows, concert bracelets, ticket stubs…

I turned my back on all of it, focusing on the picture hung over my pillow. My own face smiled right back at me, dressed in a cap and gown for my middle school graduation. Mom was grinning at the camera, Dad caught mid-laugh as he held my cap high over my head.

"Hey, Dad. So…new school tomorrow. Logically, I shouldn't even be nervous. Lydia's taking good care of me, and I know a bunch of people to help me get around. I'm not interested in any of the LAX boys that I've met so far, so you don't need to worry about that. I'm trying not to worry, to—to just breathe and let it happen, but…I'm scared…and I really miss you…"

My lower lip began to tremble and, with practiced precision, I pinned it between my teeth and pulled myself together.

"I should probably get to bed. Lydia will probably guillotine me if she has to cover up my puffy eyes tomorrow. Love you, Dad."

I kissed the tips of my fingers, touching them briefly to the photo before I tucked myself in and rolled onto my side. All I had to do was keep a level head. Just keep my head down and stay close to Lydia. I'd make it through the first day of stares and looks of pity, and then I could get back to a normal life.

A/N: Why hello there! If you're new here, welcome! If not, welcome back and...yeah, I didn't really expect to find myself here either!

As indicated by the title, this is a rewrite of my Teen Wolf story from eight years ago. I've developed a lot as a writer over the last few years, and I wanted to return to this story to do it justice. I've also changed as a person and come to a deeper understanding of Sadie and where her future lies. I've been working on this project in secret since March, but in light of the Teen Wolf movie announcement, I thought it was time to share the story with you all. There will be additional content, new surprises in the plot, and hopefully less typos.

The Wild Side will update every Monday. This story is rated T for suspense, language, and violence. It is a tad darker than the original installment, but in the event of any content I consider particularly sensitive, I will include a trigger warning at the beginning of the chapter. If there's anything specific you feel should be tagged, please let me know. For visual aids, playlists, and additional content, you can visit the story's tumblr page at thewildsideseries.

Finally, I want to thank all the readers and supporters of this story. Even though it's been five years since I laid this story down, I still get messages about Sadie from hopeful fans who wanted new content. I hope that you enjoy this journey. I want to thank alinova: responding to your messages is what sparked this revival. I can't thank you enough.

Thank you for reading, and stay wild.

-Brittney (and Sadie)