Two days earlier, yet a lifetime ago.

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The whole school was on high alert. Students rushed this way and that, completing the tasks that kept coming like a barely contained engine rushing towards the finish line.

Fights broke out over office supplies. The clubs set up war rooms and the classes drafted students and teachers alike for arcane tasks.

It goes without saying that as deputy editor for the school’s paper, Samantha was feeling the pressure creeping up her shoulders. Leading projects and maintaining hierarchy was hard work, meticulous work. But often, it was the appearance of order that made or broke the peace.

She epitomized this. The girl who would stand above the coming and going scholars who chronicled all things ‘school’.

Samantha knew she was the shortest student in the room, yet with her superior vantage and glare so sharp it cut beams through the space, she kept the chaos at bay. With a walking, talking lighthouse, the students were weathering the storm, if barely.

The time honored tradition of Homecoming was getting closer by the second, and she vocally whipped at her useless student journalists, harassed her advisers for help, and by and large made herself a pain in the ass to everyone involved in the organization of the biggest school event of the year.

“Samantha? Bridget wants you to meet her at the library!” A poor freshman yelled from the door, nervously looking around to make sure he wasn’t going to be roped in to yet another side-quest before running away. He didn’t even make sure anybody heard him.

Which was fine as far as she was concerned; she was going to ignore the literature club’s summons anyway. “Where’s my artist? I was promised a web designer!” she called into the frantic school newsroom. “Culture! Where’s my artist?”

“What makes you think I got a clue, Sam?”

Culture had features that defy description, as if the whole world had planned, in one big conspiracy, to present the perfect example of the word cosmopolitan. To complete the trifecta, she had immaculate fashion sense and a burning passion for harshly reviewing all the social events going on in the city. To put things bluntly, if the abstract concept of culture had a goddess attending the school, you’d be thinking of Culture.

“What is it you even do around here if you can’t tell me why art haven’t sent anyone yet?”

Culture just stared back at her with betrayed tears. “Drama still won’t tell me who they cast for the male lead… I’m still waiting for 3 of the drafts that I was supposed to edit this week, and I’m stuck writing the editorial for the paperback!”

Samantha bit her lips, not quite sure what to do with the girl. She should have known better then to pile onto her friend, even in a moment of weakness. “What’s the editorial even about?”

The waterworks began in earnest. “I don’t even know!”

The knot in Samantha’s shoulder-blade pinged at her angrily. She needed a massage badly. “Damn… okay. Marina, you’re on Culture duty, take a break and get her to stop crying.”

“But-“

Samantha grabbed Marina’s shoulder. “Get her to stop crying.” She repeated. “Now.”

You’d be hard pressed to call Marina motherly, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. The two girls head out the door, though not before Samantha briefed them. As for the editorial piece itself… Barak was going to get a piece of her mind when she finds him.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The art assets for the school’s web issue were still no where to found, so that had priority. She tossed out a couple of motivational cries to the students in the room and rushed out herself.

“Bridget is still looking for you.” A student called at her as she walked down the long hallways.

“Bite me.”

Samantha stormed into the room that the art club likes to call the “The Studio”. A glorified supply room, more like. The students had several projects in various stages of completeness, and room for exactly none of them. The scene reminded her of all that abstract art that put limbs on top of inanimate objects on top of impossible angles. Oh, and eyes. A dozen pairs of eyes all focused on her the moment she opened the door.

“Where’s my artist?” She demanded at the glaring stares, though no one answered her. “Is Tally here?”

One of the girls clumsily stepped on someone’s legs as she came forward. Angry yelps and annoyed “it’s ruined!” quips followed the girl as she failed at not causing havoc.

Large, almond eyes met Samantha. “Tally’s… n-not feeling well t-today.”

Or so the girl said. Samantha didn’t believe the girl, but that was fine.

With a bright, carefree smile that would make a buddhavista green with envy, she told the girl. “Great, you’ll do.”

The freshman girl startled. “Wai-what?” She even dropped the tray of art supplies she was holding. The mess was stuff of legend. “I’m so sorry!”

But Samantha ignored the state of her shoes and pants.

“We need a web designer… I need a web designer.” She let her voice take a sharp edge, and placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder to frighten her into submission. “Soooo… you’re going to meet me in the newsroom three minutes ago.”

“B-but-“

“Ask Culture to give you a couple a cookies, Barak has a hidden stash in his desk.” Samantha lathered her voice with extra-sweetness, all the better to get the girl going. “I’ll meet you there and we can start working - your work has been piling up this week.”

“I… don’t…” the girl’s head went on a swivel, looking to anyone and everyone to save her. Her fate was sealed - sure, a couple of the younger students moved to help their friend, but the seniors stopped them from interfering. The collective mind of the art club new better then get in her way now that she had her sacrificial lamb.

“You now where the school’s newspaper room is, right?”

“Yes!” the girl startled again… “Maybe?”

“Allons-y!” Samantha urged her to get moving.

The girl cleared the hallway and turned the corner in a roll. A solid Sonic impersonation if she ever saw one.

Still smiling, Samantha turned to the staring artists. “Tell Tally she can have the girl back after homecoming.”

And as for their part, the art club went back to work as if nothing happened.

With an artist finally in the fold, Samantha shot to the WC to clean up. But what greeted weren’t the sinks and stalls she expected.

“Um…”

“See! I told you we needed to hurry!”

She smashed closed the door - but the image of zibras lazying about in a Japanese bathhouse (or Onsen, as she’d later look up), was burned forever in her brain.

“Don’t worry Samantha…” She recited to herself. “A hint of insanity was expected.”