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Ester hates being late. It’s one of the anxieties Top is supposed to help her manage. How Top could make anybody feellessanxious, I’ve never understood, but he’s the cutest emotional-support animal you’ll ever meet. Part Jack Russell, part Yorkie, part tornado.

He sniffs my hand as he follows Ester out. Maybe I didn’t clean all the squid juice from under my fingernails.

I grab the go bag I packed last night. I’m not taking much: change of clothes. Wetsuit. Dive knife. Dive watch. None of us knows what the weekend trials will be like. They’ll be mostly underwater (duh), but the upperclassmen won’t tell us anything specific. Even Dev. They take their vows of secrecyveryseriously. It’s annoying.

I rush to catch up with my friends.

To get to the quad, we have to go downstairs and pass through the eighth-grade wing. For a long time, I thought this was an annoying interior-design flaw. Then I realized the dorms must have been arranged like this on purpose. It means the chum have to get out of our way several times a day, looking at us freshmen with expressions of fear and awe. For our part, every time we pass through, we can thinkAs lowly as we are, atleast we’re notthesepoor schmucks. They all seem so small, young and frightened. I wonder if we looked like that last year. Maybe westilllook like that to the upperclassmen. I imagine Dev laughing.

Outside, the beautiful day is heating up. As we hurry across campus, I think about all the classes I’ll be missing because of our trip.

The gymnasium: six climbing walls; two rope courses; hot and cold yoga rooms; courts for basketball, racquetball, volleyball and bungee ball (my favourite). But Fridays are for martial arts. I’d be spending my morning getting thrown into a wall during malaa yuddha matches. I can’t say I’ll miss that.

The aquarium: the largest private research facility in the world, I’m told, with a better variety of marine life than Monterey Bay, Chimelong or Atlanta. We operate rescue-and-rehabilitation units for leatherback turtles, otters and sea lions (all of whom are my precious babies), but today would be my day to scrub the eel tanks, so see ya!

The natatorium: three swimming pools, including the Blue Hole, big and deep enough to run submarine simulations. The only larger swimming pool in the world is at NASA. As much as I love my indoor dive classes, I’ll take the open ocean any day.

Finally we pass Verne Hall, the ‘gold-level’ research wing. What goes on in there, I have no idea. We won’t be allowed entry until we’re juniors. Verne’s gilded metal facade stands out among the campus’s white buildings like a gold-crowned tooth. Its dark glass doors always seem to taunt me.If you were cool enough, like your brother, you might be able to come inside. HA-HA-HA-HA.

You’d think out of forty upperclassmen,somebodywould be willing to drop a little juicy gossip about gold-level classes, but nope. Like I said, their commitment to secrecy is absolute and annoying. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay sotight-lipped if I get to be an upperclassman, but that’s a problem for another year.

In the main quad, seniors are lazing on the grass. They’re all done now except for finals and graduation, the lucky bums. Then they’re off to top universities and promising careers. I don’t see Dev, but his girlfriend, Amelia Leahy, my house captain, gives me a wave from across the lawn. She signs,Good luck.

I sign back,Thanks.

I tell myself,I’ll need it.

I shouldn’t be too worried. Our class is already down to twenty people – the max number allowed to advance. We lost ten students during our chum year. Another four so far this year. Theoretically, the rest of us could all survive the cut. Also, my family has attended HP for generations. And I’m the freshman prefect for House Dolphin. I’d have to screw up really badly to get kicked out …

Ester, Nelinha and I are almost the first ones to the bus. But, of course, Gemini Twain has got there before us. He’s standing at the door with his clipboard, ready to take names and kick whatever needs kicking.

The Shark prefect is tall, dark and lanky. Behind his back, everybody calls him Spider-Man, because he looks like Miles Morales fromInto the Spider-Verse. He’s not nearly that cool, though. We’ve come to a truce since last year, but I still don’t like him.

‘Nelinha da Silva.’ He checks off her name but won’t meet her eyes. ‘Ester Harding. Prefect Ana Dakkar. Welcome aboard.’

He says this like our shuttle bus is a battleship.

I give him a little bow. ‘Thank you, Prefect.’

His eye twitches. Everything I do seems to bother him. That’s okay with me. During our chum year, the guy made Nelinha cry. I will never forgive him for that.

Bernie is our driver today. He’s a nice old dude, retired navy. He’s got a coffee-stained smile, silver hair and gnarled hands like tree roots.

Dr Hewett sits next to him, going over the day’s schedule. As usual, Hewett is pallid, sweaty and dishevelled. He smells like mothballs. He teaches my least-favourite class, Theoretical Marine Science, or TMS. Most of us call it ‘too much stuff’. Sometimes we use a different word that begins withs.

Hewett is really strict, so this doesn’t bode well for the trials. My friends and I sit at the back of the bus, as far away from him as possible.

As soon as all twenty freshmen are on board, the bus gets underway.

At the main gate, the heavily armed paramilitary dudes wave and smile as we leave, like,Have a nice day, kids! Don’t die!I guess most high schools don’t have this level of security or the fleet of tiny surveillance drones that constantly circle the campus. It’s weird how quickly you get used to it, though.

As we turn onto Highway 1, I look back at campus – a dazzling collection of sugar-cube buildings perched on the clifftop above the bay.

A familiar feeling washes over me:I can’t believe I go to school here.Then I remember I have nochoicebut to go to school here. After what happened to our parents, it’s the only home Dev and I have in the world.

I wonder why I didn’t see Dev at breakfast. What had security said when he reported that flicker of light along the security grid? It was probably nothing, like he thought.

Still, I clutch the black pearl at the base of my throat.