The bell was a relief and a warning at once. It cut through the murmur of Period Seven like a knife—metal against tired bones—and the room erupted. Teens shoved chairs, laughed, whooped. Rain spat against the high classroom windows in a white, impatient drum. Someone shouted, "Nor'easter! Parties tonight!" and half the class answered with something obscene and delighted. Kennedy Dunlap finished the last sentence on her page, underlining it with the quick, economical stroke she used for everything important. She had her headphones in but the rain was its own kind of music tonight—sharp and impatient, like someone trying to rewrite the town. A gust picked up and the old windows rattled. The cheer outside was a gift. Students gathered their bags with the sort of practiced speed that comes from living on a coast where weather decides your life every other month. She should have been pleased. Early dismissal meant getting home before her father, Henry, who stayed late at the nonprofit most nights. It meant a paper-mug of coffee from Marianne's Bakery if she timed it right. It meant being able to check the scholarship site before bed, answering the optional essay prompts while the world shrugged and slept. Instead she packed slowly, methodically—pencil case, folder, notebooks, a paperback she wasn't going to read. The hallway emptied fast. Someone bumped her shoulder with an apology that sounded like a question. Kennedy nodded at the opening door, then walked the