I slowly open my eyes, blinking up at a smooth, eggshell white ceiling. Everything is absolutely still. 

For a moment fear grips my senses. This isn’t my room, this isn’t where I live, this isn’t where I’m supposed to be, I panic.

But then my memory catches up with me and I exhale slowly.

I’m still not used to the feeling of waking up in my own bedroom; one which I don’t share with Millie, Lyna, Joanne, and Naomi. “The Five Sisters”, we used to call ourselves, giggling and hugging each other. We weren’t blood related but we were inseparable.

All of our parents had either died or abandoned us, and we found each other over the course of time.

Naomi found me first at 11 years old, huddled silently on a street corner, a cardboard box that read “Tips Appreciated” in front of me. It was a few months after my parents had abandoned me, leaving nothing but a note on the fridge that read, Supper's in the fridge. Mommy and Daddy love you!

Mommy and Daddy love you, my .

Naomi took me in, giving me a place to stay in her small tenant. We found Lyna and Joanne fighting in the streets one day in front of the old Stop and Shop, pulling at each other’s hair and kicking each other. They stopped once Naomi gave them a Laffy Taffy bar. They came with us, too. 

 Millie was last. She was the baby of our group, only 6 years old at the time. Naomi found her in the graveyard behind St. Mark’s Church, sobbing her eyes out in front of a worn stone plaque.

So we lived together for 3 years, bearing through the hardships and struggling to get by.

Nevertheless, we were happy.

Until one day a month ago, when a tall, nervous-looking man with slicked black hair visited our tenant, brandishing a sheaf of paperwork and informing me that I had won a special scholarship to an academy and I would have to come with him.

I begged him to consider taking my sisters as well, but he refused.

"You're the only one that's been accepted," he told me softly, an undertone of desperation in his voice. "Please. You must come to Webster Academy." 

I was about to stay with my sisters but Naomi convinced me otherwise. "Go," she said, closing her eyes. "Hana... you must have a good future. Do it for us." 

For a 14 year old, she sounded so experienced and mature. 

The next thing I knew, I was on a plane to Spring Valley, North Carolina; where I am right now. As soon as I arrived here I knew that it would be different from the Bronx. I could tell by the Lamborghinis and McMansions and Burberry stores everywhere.

The man gave me the keys to a condo, an orientation envelope to a school named “Webster Academy” (“It’s only a few minutes away from here,” he told me. “You can walk.”), a credit card, and a cellphone.

Then he left hurriedly, driving away in his small silver car.

That was the last time I saw him, and that was months ago.

And today’s the first day of school at Webster Academy, my new school.  I had purchased my uniform, school supplies, and even a laptop (I had a credit card. Why not utilize it.) and I’m prepared for this day.

Scratch that. I’m not prepared at all.

After consulting the most intelligent source out there (Google), I'd learned that Webster Academy was a private school whose tuition fee had more zeroes than I had pairs of jeans.

"It’ll probably be filled with catty high-class rich kids," I groan, burying my head in my pillow. “I don't want to go to stupid Webster Academy." 

Finally guilt catches up with me and I throw myself out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. 

I wish my sisters were here.