RWD: 5.x (Intermission)(Taylor Pt 1)

Arcadia sat on a little rise above the streets, stone and glass and sun-faded banners, the kind of building you put on a brochure for “oppor

5.x (Intermission)(Taylor Pt 1)

Arcadia sat on a little rise above the streets, stone and glass and sun-faded banners, the kind of building you put on a brochure for “opportunity.” There was a wall, waist-high and decorative, stone blocks with the mortar lines pressed neat and clean, ivy trimmed back before it could make a mess. A pair of brick pillars framed the main gate. The plaque on one pillar had tarnished to a polite brown, letters still legible: Arcadia High School. Past the gate, the buildings laid themselves out in an H, two long bars connected by a shorter crosspiece. Windows in repeating grids. A glassy front where someone had decided sunlight helped with learning.

Dad parked in the visitor lot. He drummed his fingers once on the steering wheel before he caught himself. He asked, not for the first time, “You okay?”

I checked the clock on the dash, my hands tight inside my sleeves. “Yeah.”

He looked like he wanted to say more. The lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper than they had been yesterday. I thought about texting Greg to tell him we’d made it, then shook my head and tucked the impulse away. “Let’s go.”

We got out, gravel crunching underfoot. The air was colder on the hill. Cleaner, too. Less city stink.

At the gate, a security booth sat under an aluminum awning. The man inside stood when he saw us coming. He was tall without being imposing, the kind of big that fit a uniform well. The name tag on his chest said Collins. He opened the door and leaned out with a practiced, friendly smile.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” Dad said, falling into polite-worker cadence. “We’ve got an appointment with the principal. Clarkson.”

Collins glanced at his clipboard, even though nobody ever got this far without a reason. “Name?”

“The Heberts.”

“Welcome to Arcadia,” he said, and somehow didn’t make it sound like a slogan. He buzzed the pedestrian gate. “Mr. Clarkson is expecting you. His office is dead center—through those doors, up the short hall. If you get turned around, just ask.”

“Thanks,” Dad said.

We passed the threshold. The gate clacked shut behind us. The campus sound shifted—less car noise, more voices and footfalls and the hollow slap of a ball on gym floor somewhere. Inside, the front hall was bright, pale linoleum reflecting too much light. The walls were lined with bulletin boards and posters in frames: robotics team photos, theater posters, a blood drive, a recruitment flyer for the school paper with a cartoon of a detective holding a magnifying glass over the word “TRUTH.” Everything edged toward that not-quite-rich-school neatness—no marble, but a solid budget and a pride that wasn’t performative.

We followed signage to the main office. The door had that full-glass panel with wire lattice inside—safety glass—and the words Administration stenciled on. Inside, the secretary’s desk sat like an island in a little sea of chairs. A printer hummed. The woman at the desk looked up with an expression tuned for parents: alert, neutral, ready to escalate niceness as needed.

“Hi,” Dad said. “We’re here to see Principal Clarkson.”

She made a quick call. A minute later a door to the side opened and Principal Clarkson stepped out. He was a broad-shouldered man in a navy suit that fit well enough to say he cared but not enough to say he was wealthy. His hairline was losing ground, and he’d decided to meet it halfway with a close crop. The lines of his face were heavy but not unkind.

“Mr. Hebert. Ms. Hebert.” He shook our hands. Warm grip, dry palm. “Come on back.”

His office had a wall of diplomas and a single photo of a class in front of the building, all summer clothes and teeth. The furniture was comfortable without being plush. He gestured us to sit and took his place behind the desk, then immediately leaned forward, forearms on the blotter, the move of a man trying to be present.

“First,” he said, “I’m sorry for what you went through at Winslow.”

The words had a script to them. The cadence was a hair too smooth. But his eyes didn’t shift away from mine as he said it, and he didn’t rush to the next line. I nodded once. Dad didn’t nod.

“I’ve reviewed the documentation,” Clarkson went on. “And I’ve spoken with the district. There’s been… attention.” A flicker there, like he wanted to smile and decided not to. “Our concern is making sure you have a clean start here. That means clarity. Expectations on both sides. It also means we don’t pretend this is a vacuum. People may know your name already. We can’t stop that. We can set tone.”

“Okay,” I said.

He outlined the practicals. Schedule draft. I’d be placed into comparable classes, with flexibility to shift after a week if the placements were off. He explained Arcadia’s “respect culture” in bullet points that had survived five committees: zero tolerance for harassment, protocols for reporting, escalation trees. There were phrases that had lived too long on memos—“learning community,” “shared responsibility”—but he didn’t wield them like shields. He looked at Dad when he talked about safety, then back at me when he talked about agency, a deliberate calibration of audience.

“If at any point you feel uncomfortable,” he said, “you let us know. Early is better than late.”

“Us?” I asked.

“My office,” he said. “Your counselor, Ms. Park. Any teacher you trust. And Vice Principal Howell handles student life and discipline. You’ll meet her shortly.”

Dad asked a few questions. He did it the way he did everything—carefully, hands folded, voice even, the steel showing only in the specifics. Paper trail. Response times. Who’s accountable for what. Clarkson answered without bristling. It wasn’t Winslow. No shrugging, no “our hands are tied.”

A knock, and the secretary leaned in. “Ms. Park is out with the sophomores, but Vice Principal Howell can see Taylor now.”

“Good,” Clarkson said. He stood. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Hebert, I’d like to keep you for a few minutes after she goes, to talk resources and logistics.”

Dad glanced at me. “You okay?”

I was. “Yeah.”

Clarkson walked us to the outer office, then pointed me down a short hall. “Second door on the right. Ms. Howell knows you’re coming. Ms. Hebert—Taylor—welcome to Arcadia.” He said my name like he meant it. I didn’t know what to do with that, so I nodded.

The secretary—Serena—had everything ready with that uncanny office magic, like papers conjured themselves from the cabinets when you look away. My temporary ID was a laminated rectangle with the worst possible freeze-frame of my face. She handed me a map of the campus and a slip of paper with Room 214 — Homeroom: Ms. Leclair circled. “Vice Principal Howell is just down the hall. Second door to your left.”

The hall to Howell’s office had fewer posters. The door had a frosted window, Vice Principal Howell in neat vinyl letters. I knocked.

“Come in,” a voice said, clipped enough to shave with.

The office was smaller than Clarkson’s, more functional. A file cabinet, a framed certificate, a corkboard that tried to organize a war of sticky notes and strings into a map. Cooler too, not in temperature so much as effect. The blinds were half-closed, light striping the floor. A single plant tried to survive in a pot on the windowsill.

Howell herself was in her forties, hair pulled back into a tight bun that showcases a long face and sharper cheekbones. She was in a charcoal blazer and a white blouse, a pin at the lapel that might be the school crest or something else. She didn’t stand to shake my hand, but she gestured to the chair in front of her desk like she’d had practice turning that into a courtesy.

“Ms. Hebert,” she said. “Please. Sit.”

I sat.

Howell’s desk was ruthlessly organized: in-tray, out-tray, a pen aligned parallel to a yellow legal pad. A sealed envelope sitting just out of reach, cream paper, heavy, with my last name penned in a looping hand on the front. Her eyes flicked to it and away in the same heartbeat she gestured for me to sit.

“You’ve had a… complicated semester,” the woman said. 

I kept my face neutral. “Yes.”

“Arcadia is a community,” she said, folding her hands. Her nails were unpolished. “Our expectations are clear, and our staff takes them seriously. I suspect you will find this a… different environment.”

“I already do,” I replied. 

A thin smile. “Good. Now. I want to be perfectly clear: if at any time you encounter any issue—academic, social, anything—you may come directly to me. No appointment necessary. We will ensure your experience here is a positive one.”

I nodded, trying to rationalize it. She was just being careful. She didn't want the school to be a part of another scandal. But something in her tone, the way she was looking at me, felt off. Too intense.

“I… I’ll be fine,” I said, my voice quiet. “I just want to be a normal student. I don’t want any special treatment.”

She smiled, a tight, thin-lipped thing that didn't reach her eyes. “Of course, ms Hebert. We all want you to feel normal. But sometimes, a little extra attention is necessary. We have a vested interest in your well-being. Arcadia benefits from community support. Occasionally, members of that community make their priorities known in constructive ways.” Her eyes slid, almost idly, to a stack of forms off to the side. “In this case, a very generous donation was made to the school, with the implicit intention of ensuring your comfort here.”

A pause. “...I don’t understand.”

“The funds were earmarked for student life, anti-bullying initiatives, and facility maintenance,” she said. Her gaze returned to me, steady now. “The timing suggests a benefactor who cares very much that you have a positive experience.”

Heat pricked at my ears. Greg. Of course it was Greg. Who else has both the money and the audacity to write a check so large enough to push policy changes in a school this prestigious? A feeling of embarrassment over me, familiar and mildly irritating, like a tag in a shirt you can’t cut off.  

“If you can… please,” I said, hearing the hitch in my own voice and hating it, “don’t make a big deal. I just want to do my classesn peace.”

Howell watched me for a second longer than was comfortable. Her face didn’t change. “Regardless. It does not change our policies.” She said, making it clear my request was not going to be respected. “If you have any trouble, you come to me or speak with your counselor, Ms. Park. We’ll respect your wishes as best we can. But rest assured, we’re only here to help.”

She pushed the folder across the table to me. “Temporary schedule. Locker assignment and combination. I am sure you’ve been given a map and directions to your homeroom.”

I nodded. 

“Good. Your first-period is with Ms. Leclair. She runs a tight ship; don’t be late.”