The first real morning of school arrived like a dare.
In Texas, the first day always meant heat already pressing at the windows—sunlight loud, air thick, the world acting like it had somewhere urgent to be. In Cedar Ridge, the morning felt quiet and sharp. The light was pale and clean, and the cold sat just outside the glass like it was waiting for permission.
Sol stood in his room with his backpack open on the bed, double-checking things he didn't need to double-check.
Pencils. Notebook. Schedule folded so many times it was starting to look like an origami project. A granola bar his mom had insisted on. The "Cedar Ridge Survival Guide" Kaylee had made, because if he didn't bring it she would absolutely accuse him of disrespecting local culture.
He tugged his hoodie down, then reconsidered and swapped it for a long-sleeve shirt under his denim jacket. The air had bite today. Not winter bite. Just enough to remind you Montana had teeth and didn't apologize for them.
His phone showed one bar.
It always showed one bar.
Sol stared at it like it was personally offending him.
"Don't look at it like that," his dad called from downstairs. "It can't hear you."
"It's mocking me," Sol muttered, and shoved it into his pocket anyway.
Downstairs, breakfast was already on the table like his mom had been planning for this moment all week. Eggs, toast, and a travel mug of coffee that his mom slid toward him like she was making a deal.
His dad sat across from him, calm and solid in a dark T-shirt, his own coffee steaming in a chipped mug that looked like it belonged in a workshop. His mom wore a sweater and jeans, hair wrapped neat, earrings in place, moving around the kitchen like she was trying to make "new life" feel normal through sheer force of routine.
Sol took a bite of toast and tried not to think about the fact that when he walked into Cedar Ridge High today, every single person would know he was the new kid before he said a word.
His mom watched him with that mother-radar gaze. "You're gonna be fine."
Sol chewed. "You don't know that."
His dad's tone was easy. "You don't have to be fine. You just have to be smart."
Sol looked at him. "That's not comforting."
"It's true," his dad said, like truth was comfort enough.
His mom pointed her fork at him. "Remember—be polite."
Sol nodded, automatic.
"Be aware," his dad added.
Sol nodded again.
His mom smiled, amused. "And be home by ten."
Sol paused. "It's the first day of school."
His dad didn't blink. "And?"
Sol sighed. "Yes, sir."
His mom laughed softly. "Don't 'sir' your father like he's a drill instructor. He'll enjoy it."
His dad's mouth twitched. "I don't know what you mean."
Sol finished eating, stood, and slung his backpack on. He hesitated at the doorway, a small moment of stillness where his body tried to decide if it wanted to step forward or stay in the safe zone of home.
Then he remembered Kaylee's voice—If you get lost, they'll assign you to freshman duties.
That was enough fear to move him.
---
The school parking lot had filled overnight like a bowl you forgot on the counter.
Trucks. Old sedans. A couple newer SUVs. Kids clustering in small groups that looked like they'd been in place since childhood. People waved at each other like they were neighbors, because they probably were. Some parents hugged too long. Some didn't hug at all. A few kids already looked exhausted like the day had personally insulted them.
Sol parked, took a breath, and got out.
The cold hit him immediately. Not painful. Just bracing. He zipped his jacket halfway and started walking.
He didn't make it ten steps before a voice called, loud and delighted.
"SOOOOL!"
Kaylee.
Sol turned and saw her bouncing across the lot like she'd been launched. Today she wore a bright sweater that made her look like autumn decided to become a person—warm color, soft knit—paired with jeans and boots that clicked confidently on the pavement. Her hair was half-up again, clipped with something glittery that caught the morning light like she needed to be seen by satellites.
She stopped in front of him, hands on her hips. "Okay. First-day assessment."
Sol blinked. "Already?"
Kaylee leaned closer like she was inspecting a rare artifact. "You look… functional."
Sol deadpanned. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
Kaylee gasped. "I am incredibly nice."
"You called my hoodie loud," Sol reminded her.
"It was loud," Kaylee said, unashamed. "Also, your jacket is much more 'Montana citizen.' I approve."
Sol started walking, and Kaylee fell into step beside him like it was natural.
Near the entrance, Noelle waited—alone, but not lonely. She stood with her tote bag, hair clipped back, face calm. Today she wore layers in neutral tones, clean lines, everything intentional. When she saw Sol, she nodded once like they'd already agreed on a contract.
"Morning," Noelle said.
"Morning," Sol replied.
Noelle's eyes flicked to Kaylee. "You're already talking."
Kaylee grinned. "It's my love language."
Sierra joined them near the doors, hands in her jacket pockets, expression composed. She looked awake in the way athletes did—body ready, mind already in gear. She glanced at Sol, then at Kaylee, then back to Sol.
"You good?" Sierra asked.
Sol nodded. "As good as I'm gonna be."
Sierra accepted that like it was enough.
Bri arrived last, a little out of breath like she'd been psyching herself up the whole walk from her car. She wore a cardigan again, beanie snug, braid over her shoulder. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. She saw the group and visibly relaxed—just a fraction, but Sol noticed.
Kaylee waved at her like she was guiding a plane. "Bri! You made it!"
Bri gave a small, shy smile. "Yeah."
Kaylee leaned toward Sol, whispering loudly, "See? She's brave."
Bri's cheeks went pinker. "Kaylee…"
Sol kept his voice gentle, low. "Morning, Bri."
Bri glanced up, met his eyes for a second, and nodded. "Morning."
It was small. It still felt like progress.
They walked in together, and Sol felt that familiar ripple—the hallway attention, the way people looked and then looked again. The new kid. The Texas kid. The kid standing with those girls.
Sol didn't flinch. He kept moving. Calm. Aware. Hands loose. Shoulders relaxed.
His dad would've approved.
---
First period hit Sol like a wall of names.
Teachers calling roll. Kids talking over each other. The squeal of chairs. The smell of dry-erase markers and old textbooks.
In Government, Sol sat near Noelle without being told to. It just happened.
Noelle's desk was neat. Pencil aligned. Notebook opened to a blank page. She wrote her name at the top like she was establishing territory.
Sol pulled out his notebook, glanced around, and caught Noelle watching him—not in a creepy way. In a "do you know what you're doing" way.
"You're organized," Sol murmured.
Noelle's tone was matter-of-fact. "It reduces stress."
Kaylee sat two rows over and immediately raised her hand to ask a question that was half real and half designed to make the class laugh.
The teacher—Mr. Halvorsen, gray hair and a voice that sounded like he'd been explaining things for thirty years—looked at Kaylee like he'd already accepted this was his life.
"Yes, Kaylee," he said, tired but fond.
Kaylee leaned forward dramatically. "If the government is for the people, why does it hate my happiness?"
A couple kids snorted. Mr. Halvorsen didn't smile, but his eyes did.
"The government doesn't hate your happiness," he said. "It hates your ability to turn anything into a performance."
Kaylee sat back, satisfied. "So you admit it."
Sol couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him.
Noelle didn't look up, but her mouth twitched like she almost smiled.
Sierra wasn't in Government, but Sol felt her presence in Algebra like a stabilizing force. She sat one row over, posture straight, eyes on the board. When the teacher asked a question, Sierra answered like she wasn't trying to show off—she just knew. A couple kids glanced at her with that "of course she knows" expression.
During a lull, Sierra leaned toward Sol just enough to speak quietly.
"Don't get behind," she said.
Sol blinked. "What?"
"In this class," Sierra clarified. "He moves fast. If you miss one day, you spend a week catching up."
Sol nodded once. "Thanks."
Sierra's eyes flicked to him. "You listen. That's good."
Sol didn't know what to do with that compliment, so he just nodded again.
By the time the bell rang for his auto shop elective, Sol had already learned two things:
1. Cedar Ridge High ran on routine like it was oxygen.
2. Kaylee Rourke could talk through a fire drill.
Auto shop was in a separate building behind the main school—a long room that smelled like oil, rubber, and metal. The sound of tools already echoed even though the first day hadn't really started the "real" work yet.
Sol stepped inside and immediately felt out of place.
Back in Texas, he'd known the language. Not cars, but the rhythm of familiar. Here, the room itself felt like it had its own dialect.
A big man with forearms like tree trunks stood near a workbench. Mr. Rusk. Mustache. Grease on his hands like it was permanent. He looked Sol up and down and nodded once.
"You're Carth," he said.
Sol paused. "Yes, sir."
Mr. Rusk grunted. "Pick a bay. Don't touch anything expensive until I tell you. And if you break something, you tell me. I hate lies more than I hate idiots."
Sol blinked. "Understood."
He walked toward an empty bay—
—and stopped when he saw a girl leaning against a tool cart like she belonged to the smell of oil.
Maren.
He hadn't met her yet, but he knew the type instantly: ranch-tough, steady eyes, quiet confidence that didn't need witnesses. She wore a flannel layered over a thermal, jeans with a worn fade, and boots that looked like they'd seen real work. Her hair was braided back, flyaways escaping like they always did when you lived outside. Her hands were clean, but the faint marks on her knuckles said she'd used them for more than texting.
She looked up when Sol approached, gaze sharp and assessing.
"You new," she said.
Sol nodded. "Yeah."
Maren's eyes flicked to his shoes. Sneakers.
A corner of her mouth lifted—not quite a smile, more like a private joke. "You're gonna learn."
Sol sighed, because apparently even strangers in Montana felt obligated to insult his footwear. "So I've been told."
Maren pushed off the cart and offered her hand like it was normal. "Maren."
Sol shook it. Her grip was firm—practical, not trying to prove anything. "Sol."
Maren's eyes narrowed slightly. "Sol. Texas kid."
Sol exhaled. "It's spreading."
Maren's expression didn't change much, but her eyes softened a fraction. "Town's bored. It'll pass. Unless you give them a reason."
Sol thought of Braden and his need for reasons. "I'm trying not to."
Maren nodded like she respected that. "Good."
Mr. Rusk's voice boomed across the room. "Pair up! I'm not letting you roam free on day one like a bunch of unsupervised raccoons."
Maren glanced at Sol. "You got a partner?"
Sol hesitated. "Not yet."
Maren nodded toward the bay beside hers. "Now you do."
Sol blinked. "You sure?"
Maren shrugged like it was obvious. "You'll break less stuff if I'm here."
Sol stared. "That's rude."
Maren's mouth finally curved—small, real. "It's true."
Sol found himself smiling back before he could stop it.
They spent the first half of class doing basics: tool names, safety rules, where not to put your fingers if you liked having them. Mr. Rusk spoke like a man who'd seen teenagers do stupid things and refused to be surprised by anything.
Maren listened without interrupting. Took notes on a scrap of paper. When Sol didn't know what a certain tool was, she didn't make a big deal out of it. She just leaned in slightly and pointed quietly.
"Torque wrench," she murmured.
Sol nodded. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me," Maren said. "Just don't confuse it with the ratchet and strip a bolt."
Sol blinked. "Is that… a thing people do?"
Maren's eyes flicked toward a boy two bays over who suddenly looked guilty. "Constantly."
Sol huffed a laugh under his breath.
It felt strange—how easy it was to relax around someone quiet.
Kaylee's energy was bright and chaotic. Sierra's was sharp and steady. Noelle's was controlled and precise. Bri's was soft and cautious.
Maren felt like the ground.
---
Lunch was loud.
Sol sat with the group like it was already decided, sliding into the cafeteria's long table while Kaylee narrated the school's entire social structure like she was explaining a nature documentary.
"And over there," Kaylee whispered, pointing subtly, "is the Drama Herd. They move in packs and feed on attention. Over there is the Ranch Coalition—very powerful, very sleepy. And that corner—"
Noelle cut in. "Kaylee."
Kaylee sighed. "Fine. I'll stop profiling."
Sierra's eyes flicked across the room and landed on Braden. He was watching again. Always watching. Like he had nothing else.
Bri's shoulders tightened slightly the moment she noticed where Sierra was looking.
Sol felt irritation again. Low. Controlled.
He didn't want his first week here to be a constant dance with someone else's boredom.
Kaylee must've caught the shift, because she leaned toward Sol and dropped her voice to something almost serious.
"Just… don't be alone around him," she said.
Sol blinked. "Is he actually dangerous?"
Noelle answered calmly. "He's not dangerous. He's careless."
Sierra added, quieter, "Careless people are the ones that get you hurt."
Bri's fingers twisted lightly in her sleeve.
Sol nodded once. "Okay."
Kaylee brightened immediately, like seriousness burned her tongue. "Anyway, after school, I'm taking you to the only place in town that sells decent hot chocolate. Because I'm a humanitarian."
Sol stared at her. "It's the first day."
Kaylee pointed at him. "Exactly. You need comfort."
Noelle sighed. "Kaylee, he has a family."
Kaylee looked offended. "So do I. They can share him."
Sol nearly choked on his water.
Sierra snorted.
Noelle's mouth twitched.
Bri looked down, cheeks pink, but her shoulders relaxed a little—as if the humor itself made the world feel safer.
Sol swallowed and shook his head. "You're all insane."
Kaylee smiled brightly. "And now you're one of us."
Across the cafeteria, Braden stood up like he'd been waiting for a cue. His eyes locked on Sol again, and for a second Sol thought he was coming over.
But Braden turned away at the last moment, moving toward another table—still watching, still performing, but not crossing the line today.
Sol exhaled slowly.
Not relief. Just… patience.
One day at a time.
That was the only way to survive a town that watched everything.
---
After school, the air was colder than it had been that morning. The sun sat lower already, light stretching long across the parking lot. Kids spilled out in groups, voices bright, shoulders bumping, plans forming face-to-face instead of through screens.
Kaylee fell into step beside Sol like she'd been assigned. Noelle walked on his other side, calm, carrying her tote bag like she always had somewhere to be. Sierra and Bri followed just behind, Sierra scanning without making it obvious, Bri staying close because she trusted that space now.
Sol glanced at his phone. One bar. No new messages.
No signal.
Kaylee noticed and laughed. "Still trying?"
Sol slid it back into his pocket. "Habit."
Kaylee nudged him with her shoulder lightly. "You'll detox. We'll fix you."
Noelle corrected, "He doesn't need fixing."
Kaylee grinned. "You say that now."
Sol looked at the four of them—this strange orbit he'd fallen into without asking—and felt the familiar tightness in his chest ease.
The day had been loud. Full. Too many eyes, too many names, too many little tests.
But he'd made it through without losing himself.
And in Cedar Ridge, that counted as a win.
Kaylee pointed toward town. "Come on, Texas. Hot chocolate. No excuses."
Sol shook his head, but he followed.
Because maybe—just maybe—this was how you built a life in a place with no signal.
Not through screens.
Through showing up.