Chapter 2: The Oak Tree's Warning
The first light was a pale, watery gray, seeping around the edges of the tapestry she’d hung. Columbia blinked, disoriented for a single heartbeat before it all crashed back. The oak tree. Its branches were a dark filigree against the brightening sky, one thick limb reaching right past her window. She sat up, the blanket pooling around her waist.
From her angle, she could just see the matching limb outside Ginny’s room down the hall. A perfect, natural ladder.
The cold knot from her last conscious thought was still there, a lump of dread in her throat. She remembered the specific squeak of Ginny’s window, the shadow in the branches, the whispered conversations that would start soon. Marcus. That whole mess.
“Not my problem,” she murmured to the empty room, her voice scratchy with sleep. Her problem was today. Day one. She swung her legs out of bed, her feet hitting the bare, cool floorboards.
Downstairs, the house was quiet but not still. She could hear the low, professional hum of Georgia on a phone call in the kitchen—probably with Paul, already shaping the narrative of their first morning. The scent of expensive coffee wafted up the stairs, undercut by the artificial sweetener Georgia used but never admitted to.
Columbia bypassed the bathroom, knowing Ginny would monopolize it soon. In her room, she went to the closet. The curated armor. She pulled on the black turtleneck, the material fine and close-fitting. The vintage Levi’s, stiff and honest. She laced up the boots, the leather worn soft at the ankles. When she looked in the mirror, the person staring back was a stranger she was determined to become. Collected. Impenetrable. The golden-hazel of her eyes looked almost metallic in the weak light.
“This is my story now,” she whispered. The words felt flimsy against the immense, silent knowledge in her head.
The oak tree rustled outside, a long scrape of branch against clapboard siding.
A sudden thump and a curse came from Ginny’s room. Columbia sighed, the pragmatic older sister instinct overriding the cinematic dread. She walked down the hall and pushed Ginny’s door open without knocking.
Ginny was on the floor, half-tangled in a sequined top, her hair a wild cloud around her head. A dozen outfits were strewn across the bed and floor. “I have nothing to wear,” she groaned, more to the universe than to Columbia.
“You have plenty to wear,” Columbia said, leaning against the doorframe. “The question is what you’re trying to say.”
Ginny glared up at her. “I’m trying to say ‘I’m not a scared new kid.’ What are you trying to say?” Her eyes swept over Columbia’s outfit. “‘I’m an art gallery attendant from 1973’?”
“Effective, then,” Columbia said, a corner of her mouth twitching. She pointed to a simple black long-sleeve and a pair of dark jeans crumpled in the corner. “Wear that. The sequins scream ‘please look at me,’ and not in the way you want on day one. You want ‘mysterious and unbothered.’ Trust me.”
Ginny stared at the clothes, then back at Columbia. “Since when are you a fashion psychic?”
“Since forever. You just never listened.” Columbia pushed off the doorframe. “Bathroom’s free. Don’t use all the hot water.”
Down in the kitchen, the performance was in full swing. Georgia stood at the granite island, wearing silk pajamas, her phone propped up. Paul’s face, handsome and mayoral even at 7 a.m., beamed from the screen. Austin was already chewing toast, captivated by a cartoon on a tablet.
“Morning,” Columbia said, her tone neutral. She poured coffee into a chipped mug she’d brought from the last place. The ‘our’ in Georgia’s sentence sat between them like a landmine.
“Good morning, sweetheart!” Georgia chirped.
the kitchen’s atmosphere shifted, the staged warmth evaporating. Georgia bustled, wiping already-clean counters. “You look very… serious,” she said, not looking at Columbia.
“It’s school. Not a party.”
“You can still make an impression, peach. Smile a little.” Georgia’s own smile was strained at the edges.
“My impression will be that I do my work and mind my business,” Columbia said. “That’s the impression that gets you into college and out of here.”
Georgia stopped wiping. The silence was sudden and heavy. Austin’s cartoon laughter tinny from the tablet.
“Is that what you want?” Georgia asked quietly. “To get out of here?”
Columbia met her mother’s gaze. The fear there was real, a flash of the fifteen-year-old girl who’d been left with a baby and a fake name. It was hard to look at. “It’s what happens next, Georgia. I’m eighteen. It’s the natural progression.”
She used her name, not ‘Mom.’ It was a small, deliberate shift. Georgia heard it. Her spine straightened, the vulnerability sealed away behind a brighter, harder smile. “Well. We’ll see. The car pool leaves in twenty. Don’t be late.”
She ignored them. Her schedule was a map to her future, not to social validation. AP Lit, Calculus, Government. She found her classrooms, chose seats near the back but not in the corner, and answered roll call with a clear, unflinching “here.” When a guy with floppy hair and a knowing smirk—Hunter, her mind supplied—tried to pass her a note in Lit, she let it fall to the floor unread.
Lunch was a tactical exercise. The cafeteria roared with the chaos of reestablished hierarchies. She spotted Ginny almost immediately, hovering nervously at the periphery of a loud table. MANG. Maxine’s theatrical gestures, Abby’s sharp glances, Nora’s quiet laughter. They were a closed circuit, buzzing with their own history.
Columbia turned away. Her sister would have to navigate that gravitational pull on her own.
She walked until she found a smaller annex, a hallway with benches near the library. It was quieter. A few students were scattered, reading or tapping on laptops. She sat alone, unpacking her sandwich. The simplicity of it was a relief.
“Is this the rejects’ corridor, or are you just scouting for silence?” a voice asked.
A girl with close-cropped black hair and wire-framed glasses sat down on the opposite bench without waiting for an invitation. She had a physics textbook open on her lap and wore a faded band t-shirt under a corduroy jacket.
“Scouting for silence,” Columbia said, taking a bite. “Is that allowed?”
“It’s discouraged. Community building and all that.” The girl’s tone was dry. She glanced at Columbia’s notebook, open to a dense page of Calculus notes. “You’re in Mr. Walker’s Calc BC? How’s the existential dread?”
“Manageable. For now.”
“I’m Sophie. I had him last year. The dread peaks around March.” Sophie snapped her textbook shut. “You’re the new mayor-adjacent person. Miller, right?”
“Columbia. And he’s not the mayor yet. My mom’s just… dating him.” The word felt strange. Georgia hadn't met Paul yet, not in person; it was all relentless phone calls and carefully staged video chats, a digital courtship building toward a real-world landing that Columbia knew would upend everything.
“Right. The mysterious Georgia.” Sophie’s eyes were intelligent, assessing. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Someone trying harder. You just look like you have somewhere else to be.”
It was the most accurate thing anyone had said to her all day. Columbia almost smiled. “I do. Eventually.”
The afternoon bell rang, a shrill electronic pulse. Sophie stood, hoisting her backpack. “This bench is usually free. The silent community meets here daily. No applications required.”
It wasn’t friendship, not yet. It was a ceasefire in the social wilderness. Columbia would take it.
When the final bell released them, Columbia felt the peculiar exhaustion of sustained performance. She’d been playing the role of a normal, focused student all day, and the strain was real. She found Ginny at their pre-arranged locker spot. Ginny’s face was flushed, a mix of agitation and excitement.
“Those girls, MANG, they’re… a lot,” Ginny said, shoving books into her bag. “Maxine just talks. Constantly. Abby seems like she hates me. Nora’s sweet.”
“Sounds about right,” Columbia murmured. “You’ll figure it out.”
“They’re having a get-together Friday. At Maxine’s. I might go.”
“You should.” Columbia meant it. This was Ginny’s path, necessary and messy. Her own path required a different kind of step.
Georgia’s station wagon idled at the curb, a rust-speckled eyesore among the newer SUVs. Columbia slid into the passenger seat, the vinyl hot from the sun. Ginny and Austin piled in the back, their voices overlapping about first-day dramas.
As Georgia pulled away from the curb, chattering about her day of unpacking and how Paul had sent over a welcome basket, Columbia watched the town slide by. Wellsbury was postcard-pretty, the kind of place where everything was conveniently close. The drugstore, the café, the post office. A small, independent bookstore with green awning sat on a corner, its window display a careful pile of new hardcovers.
The idea clicked into place with solid, practical certainty. She needed money that Georgia didn’t control, a space that wasn’t the house, and a reason to be absent. A job. The whole town was walking distance. A bookstore was quiet. It was neutral. It was hers.
“You can just drop me at the corner,” Columbia said, cutting through Georgia’s monologue.
Georgia’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Why? What’s on the corner?”
“The bookstore. I want to check it out.” She kept her voice light, non-confrontational. “Thought I’d see if they’re hiring. Save up for a car eventually, so I’m not always needing a ride.”
The silence in the car was immediate and profound. Ginny stopped talking mid-sentence. Columbia felt the weight of Georgia’s gaze, a look that tried to decipher whether this was rebellion or simple initiative.
“A job,” Georgia repeated. The word sounded foreign in her mouth, a concept from a different, grittier life she thought she’d left behind. “You just started school, peach. College applications…”
“Are my responsibility,” Columbia finished gently. “This would help. It looks good. It’s a few hours after school. It’s just books.”
She could see the calculation behind Georgia’s eyes, the risk assessment. A job was independent, but it was also mundane, safe. It wasn’t parties or boys or trouble. It was almost... dutiful.
“Well,” Georgia said, the word stretching out as she slowly pulled the car to the curb opposite the green awning. “I suppose it’s mature of you.” She forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t be long. We’re having a family dinner. Paul might video call.”
Columbia got out, the door closing with a heavy thunk that sealed her into the quiet afternoon air. She watched the station wagon drive away, carrying her siblings and her mother’s unease with it.
Then she turned. The bell above the bookstore door chimed a soft, welcoming note. The air inside was cool and smelled of paper, ink, and old wood. A woman with silver hair braided over one shoulder looked up from behind the counter, her expression kind but curious.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Columbia took a breath, her boots quiet on the scarred wooden floor. She walked toward the counter, her golden-hazel eyes taking in the towering shelves, the peaceful, ordered silence. This was a place with no script, no pre-loaded memories. Just books, and quiet, and possibility.
“I was wondering if you’re hiring,” she said, and for the first time that day, her voice held no performance at all.