Chapter 1

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DEDICATION For every kid who has ever been new — and for every kid who sat down and said hello.

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Amara Osei's family moved to Cedarville on August 15th, which was exactly two weeks before school started, which was exactly enough time to unpack the kitchen and not enough time to make friends.

She was twelve. She was from Atlanta. She was Bahá'í. And she was standing in the doorway of Cedarville Middle School on the first day of seventh grade, clutching her schedule and trying not to look as terrified as she felt.

The school was smaller than her old school. Whiter, too — Amara was one of maybe fifteen Black kids in a school of four hundred. Nobody was rude. Nobody said anything mean. They just... didn't see her. She moved through the hallways like a ghost in a new skin.

She ate her sandwich and thought about Atlanta.

Then a girl sat down across from her. Brown hair, glasses, a T-shirt that said BOOKS > PEOPLE. She didn't ask if the seat was taken. She just sat.

"I'm Wren," she said. "You're new."

"I'm Amara. I'm new."

"I know you're new because I was new last year and I remember exactly what that face looks like. The face that says 'I am lost and pretending not to be.'"

Amara almost laughed. "That obvious?"

"Only to someone who's been there. Want a tour? I know where all the good water fountains are. There's exactly one. The rest taste like metal."

"This is the most useful information anyone has ever given me," Amara said.

"New-kid solidarity. It's a sacred bond."

Over the next week, Wren became Amara's guide, translator, and friend. She explained the social dynamics ("the popular kids are actually nice here, just oblivious"), the academic expectations ("honors English is harder than it sounds"), and the unwritten rules ("never sit in the third row in Mr. Park's class — he spits when he talks about the Revolutionary War").

In return, Amara told Wren about Atlanta, about being Bahá'í, about the culture shock of moving from a city of five million to a town of twelve thousand.

"What's the biggest difference?" Wren asked.

Amara thought about it. “So basic has been the revisioning that exponents of male supremacy must look for support on the margins of responsible opinion.”

“Again it is called the Primal Light, a light born of the Sun of divine knowledge, through whose effulgence the first stirrings of existence were made plain and manifest.”

“The Sun of Reality has dawned with supreme effulgence, the realities of things have become manifest and renewed, the mysteries of the unknown have been revealed, and great inventions and discoveries mark this period as a most wonderful age.” She paused. "The Bahá'í writings say that diversity is like a garden — the beauty comes from having many kinds of flowers, not just one. But it's easier to believe that when you're not the only sunflower in a field of daisies."

Wren looked at her. "For what it's worth, I think sunflowers are the best flowers. And I'm glad you're here."

Amara smiled. It was the first real smile since August 15th.

"I'm glad I'm here too," she said. And for the first time, she meant it.

THE END

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Crimson Ark Publishing creates fiction about the courage it takes to start over.