We Don't Talk to Edith Thompson

Chapter 1: One Rule

September 2nd, 2025- 7:45 AM

"Honey," a voice echoes, gently stirring me from my warm slumber. My eyes are still heavy. Five more minutes should be okay. A soft hand taps on my cheek as the voice repeats, "Honey!!" Fine, fine, I grumble to myself, forcing my eyes open. As my vision adjusts, I remember where I am, in my mom's car outside of Danvers High School in the brisk fall air, for my first day as a junior. At my second new high school of the year. Perks of being a divorce child, I guess.

Mom gently ruffles my wavy blonde hair, undoing some of the work I put so much effort into it. "Stop!" I grumble, pulling away from her as I undo my seatbelt. "I want to look nice. You only get one first impression." I open the overhead vanity mirror, turn on the light, and check my appearance. Make-up is natural with creme foundation, peach lip gloss, matching eyeshadow, and light brown mascara. Hair: a little messy, but in a cool, I just went dancing way. Perfect.

Meanwhile, next to me, my mom adjusts her tight blonde bun, modern silver trimmed glasses, and age-defying foundation in her mirror. "How do I look, Suzy? Be honest." She's been very insecure about her looks since the divorce went through, no thanks to you, Dad, so I try to boost her confidence when I can. For a few seconds, I look her up and down, taking in the beige button blouse, black slacks, and matching blazer. She went all out to look like a professional. "You look... like a badass boss lady. Danvers Industrial Packaging won't know what hit it!"

She blushes. "Oh, thank you!" She waves her hand at me in a "go on" motion. "You know, the recruiter said I was the youngest Line Manager they've ever hired. How crazy is that?"

I lean into the back seat and grab my beige Boho style backpack. "Insane." The door unlocks suddenly as Mom, lovingly, pushes me out of the car. "Oh shoot, you're five minutes late for the principal! Go, go!"

Struggling to stay on my feet, I wave back at her as she drives away. A notification on my phone informs me that I am, in fact, late. Filled with panic, I dart towards the entrance, pushing the doors open with force. Once inside, a balding, chubby, Caucasian security guard blocks the hallway. Grumpily, he barks, "Identify yourself."

Crap! Mom and I have been too busy unpacking to get my new student ID made! Maybe he'll give me a break? "Um, I-I don't have one." His eyebrow furrows; a stern frown forms on his face. Yeah, I'm in trouble. He pulls out a dark grey portable two-way radio and pushes a red button. "Principal Scott, we've got an unknown teenage female at the entrance. Permission to engage?"

"Engage"? What the hell is he talking about?

A male voice answers, "I'm on my way, could be a straggler."

The guard nods. "Understood, sir." He clips the radio to his pants before demanding, "Jacket off, backpack on the ground, now!"

Not wanting to upset him further, I throw my warm, burgundy cardigan at him and drop my backpack at his feet. I shiver a bit standing in my short-sleeved beige crop top, exposing my navel slightly. Carefully, the guard digs through the pockets of the cardigan, then dumps the contents out of my backpack, which includes several tampons, and finally, pats me down. Very uncomfortable, I cringe as he rubs my grey jeans up and down.

At this exact moment, a middle-aged man in a matching brown blazer, loafers, and slacks combination shows up. "Claude!" The guard practically jumps away from me, looking ashamed. "What are you doing?!"He shouts, rushing to my aid. "Ms. Thorn, are you okay?"

Uh, who's this guy? Why does he know my name?

"Um, yeah, sure," I mumble, very confused. "I haven't met you before, right?"

He hands me my belongings and shoos "Claude" away. "No, but your mother sent me an email about your arrival yesterday." He presents his hand. "I'm Principal Nelson Scott." I shake it firmly. "Pleasure to meet you, Suzanne."

Principal Scott ends the handshake with a loud clap. "Introductions over, let's get you sorted at my office so you can get to class on time, sound good?"

I nod, sticking my tongue out at Claude. Hoping he won't give me so much trouble next time.

With a fresh temporary student ID and my schedule, I seek out room #800 for History class with Mrs. Smith. The school is like any other. White, waxed parkay floors, metal lockers, bookshelves, pictures of sports events/festivals lining the walls, a cabinet full of royal blue ribbons and jerseys, the paint is an off white/almost yellow color throughout. Unlike my previous school, the layout is a large square with a tail-like short hallway that doesn't seem to go anywhere, and half the rooms aren't numbered. How are people supposed to find anything?

Frustrated, I kick a nearby wooden bookshelf, sending several books flying across the floor. "Dammit!" I huff, squatting down to pick them up. A hand reaches down and helps me. Sighing in relief, I say, "Thank you." No response. I look up and see a girl. She's about my age, thin figure, long black hair parted down the middle, dressed in all black, oversized clothes, and well-worn sneakers. Her skin is pale, bare of any makeup, has thin lips, a button nose, and sunken pits of onyx for eyes. She kind of looked like a typical Goth kid from my old school.

I stand up and, alongside the girl, put the books back. "I really didn't mean to make a mess. I got angry looking for room #800."

Her head tilts to the side and rasps in a quiet voice, "800? I can show you the way." She slowly walks back the way I came. "Follow me..."

So, evidently, that random tail that goes nowhere? It's the library. Which, according to my new friend, is the temporary classroom for History until the decorators finish painting and re-marking the door numbers. That should have been explained by dear Principal Scott. Whatever, all's well that ends, I suppose.

Pushing the door open, I turn to thank the girl, but she's gone. Strange, I would've noticed her slip by since she's about my height. A loud clock ringing tells me it's 8:30 AM. Time for class to begin.

"At least you're on time." An older woman says behind me. She's tall, thin, pointed nose almost like a beak, wears her hair in a large black bun, and dresses like a Sunday school teacher from the 1930s. "I'm Mrs. Joanna Smith. Please excuse me." She says politely, walking through the door.

The library looks older than the rest of the school. Although modern conveniences like Wifi and computers are available, it has a rustic 18th-century feel. Bare concrete floors, wooden panels on the walls and ceiling, all oak chairs, tables, bookshelves, and an information desk used for check-out. No posters, artwork, toys, or anything casual or colorful. It's a barren, strict environment meant for research and learning. Nothing else.

Most students are in seats, some are standing, and others, like myself, have no idea where it's socially acceptable to sit. I'm new here, therefore not privy to the inner circle or cliques of the school. What to do? I guess I could sit near the door by the put-back cart, or lean against a shelf or-

"Hey!" A squeaky female voice calls. "Hey, over here!" The voice came from what seems to be the "popular" table. Two handsome men, one light-skinned African American and the other Caucasian, with chiseled jawlines and crew cut hair wearing blue jeans and royal blue lettermen jackets with a falcon insignia on the front sat next to three gorgeous women, two Caucasian who look identical, with strawberry blonde hair wearing black tights and formfitting powder pink sweaters, and the other a dark-skinned African American in a tight leopard print dress and black tights. One of the "twins" is waving me over. "Come on, we don't bite!" She giggles.

This is already giving me a headache. Oh well, what's the worst that could happen? I think to myself, walking over to their area. Twin #1 pulls out a chair between her and one of the guys. Upon sitting down, she says, "Girl, you have great style. And your makeup? On fleek!" A round of chatter and murmurs of agreement flutters around the table. "I think you would, totally, fit in with us. What do you think, Sis?" She looks to her twin. "OMG, yes! I totes agree! Do you baby?" She pats the African American guy's shoulder. He nods.

"You sure? I'm new, and I don't want to interfere with your..." I gesture to everyone. "I kind of sat alone a lot, so I understand."

Twin #1 shakes her head, pity in her eyes. "Trust me, you won't be here." She offers her hand. "I'm Sabrina Endecott, my obvies twin is Karina, tall, dark, and handsome is Trent Ellis, her BF, so hands off, this sexy jungle cat is his younger sister, Amara, totes single, and this hunk of meat-" She squeezes the Caucasian guy. "Is Eric Acker, my BF, so definitely hands off."

I sit for a minute processing the overload of information Sabrina gave to me before replying, "I'm Suzanne Thorn, but I go by Suzy, single, no siblings, just me and my mom."

Sabrina and Karina gasp with horrified expressions."What happened to your dad? Is he like, dead?"

Laughter erupts from my lips. Sometimes, I wish he were. Leaving his wife of 17 years and only daughter, for an exotic dancer named Cinnamon, deserves some cosmic justice. Everyone looks more confused than before. Great. Ok, here goes. "No," I force out between calming breaths. "My parents got divorced. Mom got custody, not that Dad wanted it to begin with. He stayed behind in Boston and forbade her from taking me out of state, so here I am."

Amara rests her chin on her hand, looking puzzled, and asks, "Why Danvers, though, out of the entire state?"

I take a deep breath, still pushing pent-up laughter out. "Well, Mom has a friend here who went through the same thing as her and wanted to help out. She found us a house and set up an interview for a job. I guess they were friends in high school but drifted apart." I say whimsically. "They reconnected a few years ago, and the rest is history."

Sabrina, Karina, and Amara all say: "Aww..."

"Alright," Mrs. Smith says, slamming an encyclopedia onto the table. "That's enough chatter, ladies and gentlemen, it's time for learning." She picks up a wooden clipboard and begins naming off students. By the time she got to my name, I noticed something. The girl from earlier was sitting in a dark corner, alone, reading a black book with a strange symbol on it. Mrs. Smith didn't call her name. Or acknowledge her presence.

Actually, nobody in the classroom did.

"Sabrina," I whisper, not wanting to interrupt Mrs. Smith. "What's up with that girl?" I vaguely point toward the corner. "She's alone, no one is acknowledging her, and when I spoke with her earlier-"

"You what!!?" The whole table whispered angrily. They give each other a look, then nod. Some kind of understanding, I guess.

"Um, Suzy," Sabrina begins, her breath growing more unsteady as she speaks. "If you want to stay at Danvers High, or sit with us in general, there is one rule everyone must follow."

Already regretting my curiosity, I ask, "What is it?"

Everyone leans in closely so that no one can overhear them. As if the act of telling was a sin. It must be big. A massive secret that everyone, staff included, must abide by. Something ominous, old, and etched into the foundation of this small suburban town.

An eerie chill fills the air as each person whispers, "We don't talk to Edith Thompson."

To be continued...

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are fictitious and the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, organizations, or events are entirely coincidental.

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