The First Day Script
There’s a rhythm to being the new girl. A practiced introduction, a careful scan of the cafeteria, and the quiet decision of who you’ll be this time. A story about moving, memorized scripts, and learning how to belong without ever fully unpacking.
MELORA'S ARCHIVE
~Melora
1/2/20262 min read
By the time I was twelve, I had a first-day script memorized.
It went something like this:
Hi, I’m Mel.
Yes, we just moved here.
No, I don’t know how long we’re staying.
My dad works for the government.
No, I don’t have an accent.
Yes, I had friends at my old school.
Virginia. Kansas. Louisiana. Texas. Alabama. Tennessee. Florida.
Each move came with cardboard boxes and a new cafeteria.
The cafeteria is always the hardest part.
On the first day, you carry your tray like it’s fragile glass. You scan for empty seats that don’t look too empty. You calculate the risk of sitting near athletes versus band kids. You try to decode social hierarchies in under thirty seconds.
The trick is to look like you belong somewhere, even when you don’t.
I became good at scanning rooms.
At noticing which girls wore their hair the same way. Which boys laughed too loud. Which teachers would remember your name and which wouldn’t.
Moving teaches you two things quickly:
Nothing is permanent.
You can be whoever the room believes you are.
In Louisiana, I was the quiet girl with glasses.
In Texas, I tried being funny.
In Alabama, I tried being invisible.
Every new school felt like an audition I hadn’t asked for.
My sisters adjusted differently. Jazzy could perform. Jory could compete. I studied.
I watched how girls stood when they were confident. How they held their notebooks. How they answered questions without apologizing first.
Sometimes I practiced in the mirror.
When you move often enough, you stop unpacking emotionally. You leave parts of yourself folded, just in case.
Friends become temporary. Teachers become transitional. Even bedrooms feel like waiting rooms.
But here’s what I didn’t understand then:
Constant movement doesn’t just teach you how to adapt.
It teaches you how to detach.
By high school, I could walk into a room and sense within minutes where I would fall on the social ladder.
Not at the top.
Not at the bottom.
Just outside the center.
And that’s a strange place to live — close enough to observe everything, far enough not to be fully claimed by anyone.
Still, I memorized the script every time.
Hi, I’m Mel.
Yes, we just moved here.
And I would wait to see which version of me this town would decide I am.
