Chapter Text
Senior year was supposed to feel different.
That’s what everyone said, anyway—that it would be heavier, sharper, more real. That it would matter. Standing in the doorway of my classroom with my bag slung over one shoulder, I wasn’t sure I felt any of that yet. Mostly, it just smelled like fresh paper, cheap cleaner, and summer refusing to let go.
Nino wasn’t here yet.
That alone was strange enough to make me pause. He was usually early—claimed it gave him “main character energy.” I scanned the room automatically, then stopped when I noticed someone I didn’t recognize.
A girl was sitting two rows from the window, alone.
She had her bag neatly tucked under her desk and her phone turned face-down like she wasn’t expecting anyone to message her. Her hair was a deep auburn-brown, pulled back loosely, curls escaping like they hadn’t agreed to be tamed this early in the morning. She was tapping a pen against her notebook, eyes moving fast, alert. Not nervous. Curious.
New.
I hesitated for half a second—habit more than anything—then shrugged and walked over.
“Hey,” I said, stopping beside her desk. “Mind if I sit here?”
She looked up, surprised for just a moment, then smiled. Not polite-smile. Real-smile.
“Please do. I was starting to feel like the awkward transfer-student cliché.”
I laughed and dropped into the seat. “Welcome to the club. I’m Adrien.”
“Alya,” she said, shaking my hand firmly. “Alya Césaire.”
Something about the way she said it—confident, like her name belonged to her—made me grin.
“So,” I said, leaning back in my chair, “first day impressions?”
“Your desks are aggressively uncomfortable,” she replied immediately. “But I like the windows. Feels… alive.”
I blinked, then laughed again. “Yeah. That’s a good way to put it.”
We fell into conversation easily, like we’d skipped the small talk without meaning to. Alya talked fast, hands moving when she got excited, eyes lighting up when she mentioned journalism, blogs, investigations. She asked questions too—real ones—not just filler.
Before I could tell her about my piano lessons, the door banged open.
Nino.
“ADRIEN,” he announced dramatically, freezing when he saw Alya. He raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You replace me already?”
“Only temporarily,” I said. “This is Alya.”
“New girl?” he asked, already smiling.
“New girl,” Alya confirmed.
He fist-bumped her like it was the most natural thing in the world, then slid into his seat on my other side. “Cool. Anyone who can tolerate Adrien before eight a.m. is alright by me.”
“Rude,” I said.
Before Alya could respond, Rose squealed.
Like—actually squealed.
“GUYS,” she said, half-standing from her seat, pink streaks in her hair catching the light. “DID YOU KNOW MARINETTE DUPAIN-CHENG IS JOINING OUR SCHOOL?”
The room exploded.
“No way.”
“THE Marinette?”
“From the cooking show??”
“Isn’t she like—famous?”
Alya’s head snapped toward me. “No way.”
Chloé rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “Oh please. Big deal.”
I frowned slightly, glancing between them. “Who?”
Silence.
Chloé turned slowly, staring at me like I’d just announced I didn’t know what Paris was.
“Oh my God, Adrikins,” she said, scandalized. “You don’t know who Marinette Dupain-Cheng is?!”
Alya leaned across Nino, eyes wide. “Only the daughter of the most famous culinary artist in Paris,” she said. “She’s on that judging show—”
“Oh,” I said, genuinely. “I don’t watch much TV.”
Chloé scoffed. “Shocking.”
Before Alya could launch into more details, the door opened again—this time calmly.
“Good morning, everyone,” Miss Bustier said warmly.
Behind her stood a girl.
And the room went quiet.
She had deep navy-blue hair, styled into two soft buns that looked more playful than polished, each tied with a small pink bow that shouldn’t have worked—but somehow did. Her eyes were bright blue, wide and cautious, with a shy smile that didn’t quite reach them. There was something guarded there, something carefully held back.
She wore a black jacket layered over a white hoodie, the contrast sharp but intentional. A soft pink pleated skirt fell to her knees, neat and feminine without being flashy. Over her shoulder hung a small pink bag with a gold chain strap, clasped tightly in her hands like an anchor.
She looked… composed.
Too composed.
“This is Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” Miss Bustier said. “Please make her feel welcome.”
A ripple of whispers spread instantly.
Marinette nodded politely. “Hello.”
Her voice was gentle, practiced.
Miss Bustier scanned the room. “You can sit next to Nino.”
Nino froze.
Then beamed.
“Oh—uh—yeah! Totally!” he said, already pulling his chair out of the way like he’d been personally selected by fate.
Marinette walked down the aisle, every step careful. When she reached Nino’s desk, she gave him a small smile and sat, smoothing her skirt, placing her bag perfectly at her feet.
Nino leaned over instantly. “Hi. I’m Nino. Huge fan—like—not in a weird way—just—yeah.”
Her smile tightened, but she nodded. “Thank you.”
I watched her without meaning to.
She didn’t fidget. Didn’t look around. Didn’t react to the attention buzzing around her like static. But her shoulders were stiff, and when someone whispered too loudly behind her, her fingers twitched.
Not bored.
Bracing.
Alya leaned toward me, lowering her voice. “She looks… overwhelmed.”
“Yeah,” I murmured. “But trying not to show it.”
Miss Bustier started class, and conversation faded into notebooks opening and pens scratching. Alya passed me a folded note halfway through, her handwriting sharp and quick.
She’s not what I expected.
I smiled faintly and scribbled back.
Me neither.
When the bell rang, Alya stretched. “Okay, first impressions: this school is interesting.”
I laughed. “That’s one word for it.”
As students began packing up, I glanced once more at Marinette. She was listening to something Nino was saying, nodding politely, but her eyes flicked toward the window—toward the open sky beyond the glass.
Like she was counting minutes.
Or exits.
I didn’t know why that stayed with me.
But it did.
And somehow, I had a feeling this year was already changing—whether any of us were ready or not.