"And what do we have here?" Condescension interrupts my thought process. "I bet the princess is writing a letter to her prince charming."

My hand ceases motion. "And if I was, would you be so kind as my handmaiden to deliver?"

Two girls stand before me, each dressed in a standard uniform. The first girl—A stunning dark beauty wore black polo, tan khakis, and red high tops. Adorning golden pieces, her micro twist crochet braids rested perfectly shoulder length.

I proceed with sass. "Your locs need a retouch. Practically begging for help."

"It's called a retwist," she snaps back. "But you wouldn't know that with all that horsehair splitting off your back—Claiming all natural when it's fake news."

I chuckle, despite the pun, and animate my tone. "Why you mad? Is it because my hair pops voluminously and yours don't?" I toss the mane for dramatic effect. "Darling, the gag is to embrace what you've been blessed with."

My assailant seethes, rolling almond pupils before folding her arms. "Heavenly Father, please save her from the delusions of grandeur."

"Careful now. I can buy your whole life."

She chuckles with pettiness. "With what? Daddy's money? Please. You've never worked a day in your life. That's your only hand-out."

I rise to the occasion. "I'll show you a hand-out."

"Oooh, I'm shaking in my chucks," she mocks with sarcasm.

Intervention cuts through tension.

"You're both immature. Save the drama after chapel."

Left of Azrael, wavy hair cascaded in soft waves, held back by a turquoise scrunchie. Aligned with the girl's caramel visage, she wore a similar uniform of a blue polo, tan pants, and brown low tops.

"She started it," mutters my opponent.

"It's too early for all this bickering," Melody chides with her light tone.

"Don't be so sensitive, Azrael."

"Far from it," she rebuttals. "I prefer the term passionate."

Jokes aside, these girls are a blessing. Azrael excels in varsity ball while Melody stars as volleyball captain. Despite petty shenanigans, these two keep me grounded.

"Plus, I'm curious about Clair's writing." Melody sits beside me, dismantles her jean backpack, and extends her hand at my expense. "Proceed."

"Nothing out of the ordinary," I admit, folding the diary.

She switches her antics and pesters, poking my shoulder.

"Oh? What's stopping you from sharing with your best girls?"

A vein slowly throbs my temple, and I utter. "Torturing me won't make me talk, either."

"Get on with it, Clair," Azrael urges. "We really need to go over this?"

She has a point. Melody has ways of getting what she wants. This being one of them. And right now, I'm the main objective.

"You're worse than Aubri," I surrender, before reaching my breaking point.

Melody smiles brightly. "How's the baby Tisdale?"

"Annoying," I answer blankly.

The conversation shifts. I reflect on the lies, confessions, and a need for redemption.

"Next time I see your sister, I'm giving her flowers," Azrael says with a smirk.

See what I mean? Trifling.

"Whose side are you even on?" I shot back incredulously.

"Not the oppressor clearly," Azrael throws her hands dramatically. "Let's just risk someone stealing your secrets for blackmail."

The audacity.

I peeve. "Obviously, you tuned out to the most important part where Evelyn was going through my stuff!"

Azrael scoffs. "I'm not crying over spilled milk. Don't come to me when it's stolen."

We exchange glares strong enough to initiate a brawl.

I headbutt her with a light tap. "Wanna bet on it?"

She returns my advances with a threat. "I'll drag you by your edges."

The peacemaker sighs. "Will you two make up already?" Melody intercepts calmly.

I stick my tongue out and fold my arms, as a final taunt. In a moment's respite, I take a breath to shift energy and dynamics. "Anyway, I had a crazy dream."

Melody eagerly perks her voice. "How crazy are we talkin'?"

Her excitement horrifies me.

"Can't wait to hear where your imagination took you this time," Azrael sneers.

Ignoring both antics, I recount the dream state. Every word. Every sensation. Except one key detail I haven't fully grasped.

"You're watching too many horror films," Melody says with a chuckle. "Demons have crept into your cerebral."

Bless her spiritual heart.

Azrael bursts into horrendous laughter. "That ain't it. All those midnight snacks are coming to collect."

"Two years, too late," I mutter, knowing she'd dish on stupidity.

The idiocrasy. The lunacy. It's always something ludicrous.

The insomnia diagnosis went down like that in sixth grade.

"Maybe it's a deep-rooted issue you're afraid to face," a new prospect proclaims.

Azrael squawks out of her chair. Melody and I whiplash the corner and witness a new girl sitting beside us. Paired with a golden pencil skirt, a white top blended with her cream-toned pigment, and a long braid rests elegantly over her shoulder. She takes a dramatic slurp from the mocha frappe, declaring her presence to the group.

"Don't just pop out like that!" Azrael proclaims sharply.

"Don't be so sensitive," the girl tuts, flicking her right index casually.

"Hailey, when did you get here?" Melody asks, arching an eyebrow.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"Before the princess went into her lifetime adventure," replies the newcomer.

I smirk, fighting the urge to respond spitefully. "Another case of finding the good in the negative, Hailey?"

She scoffs, discarding the root of bother. "Hardly. Haven't even finished my spill yet."

Hailey adjusts her black socks, then plunges out of her seat with a dramatic flourish.

Melody's tranquil expression widens. "Here we go..."

"Someone, please stop her," Azrael cries with a face of amusement and exasperation.

Hailey's eyes narrow to the spark of inspiration. She twirls right before facing us.

"A breaking point has been breached. You can no longer abide by the dogma of society. The pressures of high class have become detrimental to your mental. You seek to destroy the 'isms of the world..." She trails off, dropping into a melodramatic pause. "...Or it's just too much anime," she concludes, casually shrugging her shoulders.

We stare in silence. Shooketh to the core. Then, fall over, bursting with laughter.

"What are you talking about?! Are you done with the theatrics?" Azrael recuperates.

"The nerve of it all," Melody composes.

I regain myself and address the issue at hand. "That's a projection coming from someone who watches more cartoons than any of us."

"Hmph. I'm not the one having premonitions," scoffs the sassy chick. "Go find a therapist before your condition worsens."

My jaw drops. Azrael releases more laughter, hollering in Melody's shoulder. Her accomplice attempts to suppress a cackle, but I see right through her—glaring at them both with death stares.

Hailey winks, straightens her skirt, and returns to her seat. "Where's Mason?"

I shrug unknowingly. "Haven't seen him yet."

She grunts in dissatisfaction. "I hope he did his part of the project."

"What are you guys working on?" I ask, twirling a lock of hair.

Hailey unzips her wool pack and pulls out a black folder, revealing a large canvas. "Our assignment was to create collages that symbolize the four seasons. I worked on summer and winter." She flips the canvas forward, showcasing a beautiful oak tree split in the middle. On one side, the tree's surrounded by orange, vibrant leaves. On the other, snow blankets the bare branches against a pale background.

"Hailey, this is amazing!" Melody exclaims with admiration.

"Alluring," Azrael compliments neutrally. "You can really feel the details."

"Jester," I banter. "Using big words to express yourself? I'm so proud of you."

"Do you really want to fight me?"

I ignore Azrael's attempt in coercion. "Hailey, you've really outdone yourself."

"Meh, could be better," mutters the artist.

Who isn't sensitive about their craft? She has a young prodigy's skillset. However, perfectionism is her constant companion that won't let her feel good enough.

She runs her fingers across the edges. "The lines are a bit crooked. The backgrounds could be a shade darker, and I knew I should've added more detail to the leaves."

"You're overreacting," Melody assures. "This is a certified A."

"I don't want certification—I want perfection!" Hailey shouts, hurling an empty frappe container in frustration.

The peacemaker attempts to intercept but the brawler stops her.

"Let it go," Azrael attests. "You know where this road goes."

Perfection is overrated. Hailey downplays her talent, convincing herself she's below average. We listen to her vent. Occasionally, we fiddle with our mobiles while she works through her meltdown. We've been down this road plenty before. Also, the frappuccino wasn't cold enough, but it's best not to meddle. Perfectionists feel the world is conspiring against them.

We're also human—Our worst critics.

The sound of metal creaking pulls us forward, as the dramatics continue to prosper. A scholar strides over the threshold. His emerald eyes catch the light. His strong cheekbones and ginger hair grant him a princely air. As a final touch, his navy slacks and trimmed blazer completed the look, accompanied with a brown pack across his chest.

"Mornin' Tisdale," the redhead acknowledges.

"Caesar," I call his nickname with relief. "Right on schedule."

He cocks an eyebrow. "In need of my services?"

A blood-curdling scream rings in our ears.

I wince at the sound. "That answer your question?"

Julius expresses confusion. "What happened?"

"A case of early life crisis," I say flatly.

"Per usual," he smirks. "She needs her daily dose of attention."

I nod without saying another word.

In a classy demeanor, the smooth operator advances the trio. Though Melody and Azrael try to offer comfort, it's no use. Their efforts can't compete with the scholar's way of handling a chaotic storm.

"Hailey, what's the matter?" he asks, squatting beside her. "Why are you crying?"

"I suck," Hailey bawls, clutching the canvas. "How am I supposed to pass with this piece of trash?"

Please make it stop, plead my thoughts.

Julius retrieves the content and studies the painting in silence before providing a verdict. "I beg to differ, guys. This actually sucks—"

"You're an asshole," Azrael objects, her face a mix of shock and annoyance.

"—In the eyes of someone who doesn't appreciate art," he finishes with a shrug.

The tension lifts and Hailey wipes her tears. "Do you really mean that?"

"Do I look like a liar?"

"Does that require an answer?" Azrael instigates.

He ignores her, standing tall as he returns Hailey's painting.

"Arigatou," she whispers, ceasing the waterworks.

Melody and I gawk in unison, showcasing our disbelief to the attention seeker.

"We just told you that minutes ago!"

She blatantly shares, "Julius's word provides more assurance."

Why are you being so extra? The thought wants to strangle her.

Azrael chuckles, Melody shakes her head, and I give Hailey a death stare.

"Moving on," Julius digresses, clearing his throat. "Has anyone started their project?"

"For Ms. Jackson?" Azrael asks in skepticism. "Isn't that due next week?"

"Obviously," Julius replies, too reproachful for my liking. "We're in the same period."

"Unfortunately," she reacts sharply. "It's nice when I don't see you."

"That makes two of us—"

"And we're going back to peace," Melody cuts the argument before it starts. "Hailey and I finished ours over the weekend. Those data structures are no joke."

"That class is hell," Hailey mutters, grasping her head. "My brain was ready to explode."

Julius grins. "Now, was that so difficult?"

"I haven't started yet," Azrael admits meekly.

"Don't do it at last minute," the scholar mocks. "You'll regret it."

"I never asked for your opinion!"

"Whoa. Don't shoot the messenger," he replies, raising his hands in mock surrender. "What about you, Tisdale?"

I scoff. "I haven't started either."

"Good grief," Julius pinches his nose bridge.

"Even the princess has her off days."

That random voice causes a chain reaction of twists and swivels to see the newcomer: a slick-haired kid wearing an all-black uniform, emulating a sense of fashion, donning frames that outline his square jawline. He removes the protection upon destination. Rebellious charm and features made up for the crude demeanor with beautiful hazels that could pierce someone's spirit.

"Good morning, peasants."

"The devil himself," Azrael taunts. "Out of dress code like a damn heathen."

"Your regard for my life is irrelevant. Charming, but not needed," he retorts coldly while adjusting his red tie. "Rules don't apply when you own the school."

Breaking the fourth wall, I won't concur. The Everetts may hold faculty positions, but August has the swagger of someone who thinks he runs the place.

"How long are you going to keep using that tall tale?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"It's not fake news," he replies confidently, walking to invade personal space. "You're not the type to sulk. What's wrong, Princess? Unhappy with your position?"

"She's dreaming of demons," Azrael announces.

I'm ready to throw hands at this point. "Girl, for once, out of good faith, shut up."

"Is that so?" August amuses, raising an eyebrow and stops me from striking. He grabs his duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder. "See you losers in the chapel. I'm reading the affirmations for service."

"Wonderful," Azrael scoffs in disgust, once social distancing took effect. "Lucifer's gonna put a curse us. Why are you two still friends?"

"He's not a bad person," I defend, though I can't hide the blush on my face.

"And I'm the Queen of England," Azrael retorts with thick sarcasm. "I can't believe you still like him and harbor feelings."

My face burns. "I don't know what you mean."

"Please tell me you didn't do it," Melody asks suddenly.

"Do what?" I ask, confusion in my tone.

"That," Hailey adds with emphasis.

I gasp. "Oh my God. No! Why would you even think that?!"

"We just want to make sure you didn't sell your soul to the devil," Azrael answers for all three, disguising bewilderment as tea. "Well, actually, we know you're attracted to toxicity."

"Julius, please tell me you don't share these same sentiments," I plead.

He answers, flipping through research papers. "I'm not involved in this conversation."

I attempt to defend myself, but campus bells ring on my behalf, signaling the start of class. I grab my bag and add a dramatic hair flip.

Thank goodness it's a half-day. Lord, I pray for understanding.

#

Asher Hall: House of Communication and Science.

Dividing the ruling class by two sectors, the tower hall is home to forty-six students. 8A is the haven of harbingers, profound in experimentation and dictation. 8B are scholars of lore and critical analysis. Fortunately, the academian isn't here. Every year, she performs a grand gesture honoring us: A weekly, all-expense paid trip to Phoenix. I've been waiting for this moment since fifth grade. A project expedition, visiting the Grand Canyon, horseback riding, and some side shopping.

Our classes often combine for morning events. Today was no exception. 8A has six rows: the same arrangement in a lecture hall. The students of 8B encircle walls, sitting beside occupant tables.

Before the podium, an older man carries a small binder.

"Good morning students," the doctor belts deeply, matching his salt and pepper demeanor. We respond quickly. Strong and rugged, he's a man of science with a strong awareness of chaos. "We have extensive grounds to cover. The sooner I call you, the faster we get to chapel." He sounds off reading the role.

Scanning the homeroom, I rest my head on a palm. Front and center by the left corner, Melody and Rae's camaraderie with Hailey commences. I sense unease from the artist continuously looking behind for any signs of partnership. Julius stands in a back corner minding his own, and I dart the empty desk in the second row, wondering the whereabouts of its owner.

* * *