THE FIRST WEEK OF HIGH SCHOOL

PERSEPHONE’S GARDEN, NORTHWESTERN BELLEVUE DISTRICT, CITY-STATE OF SEATTLE, OREGON TERRITORIES, FREDONIC UNION OF CITY-STATES[1][2]

[1] Often referred to as Fredonia, or the Fredonic Union, or the Union of City-States, or the Union, the Fredonic Union of City-States is a more or less continent wide federation of sovereign city-states united by a federal government, the core functions of which are dictated by a Constitution. The FUCS has a house of representatives with a population based number of representatives, a senate with one representative from each of the hundred something city-states (who also represent each city-state’s satellite settlements) of the union, a president, and a supreme court.The Constitution itself is always the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, possessing some unlucky passerby whenever it needs to hear a case or pass down a ruling.

[2] A note on language: Common, Fredonic Common, or the Fredonic common-tongue, is the primary language spoken by most residents of the Fredonic Union. It is a long developed creole language rooted in Isleic Common’s wacky grammar—Isleic itself being a long developed creole language that grew from the mixture of Old Anglish, Isleic Celtic, Old Norse, and Norman Old French (themselves all creoles, due to language development being driven by trade and migration than conquest in the World Between, even in Europe, which is an unusually fighty place). Common is composed of upwards of sixty percent of non-Isleic vocabulary words absorbed from the languages of Fredonic immigrants and those of the many cities around the world that the Fredonic Union trades with.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1615 PR.[1] THE FIRST DAY OF HIGH SCHOOL.

[1] Post Ruinam, increasingly interchangeable with CE (Common Era). The Fall of Rome seems pretty remote in history to most folks these days.

MEGAN. WELL BEFORE SCHOOL.

On her first day of high school, the day that Megan O’Sadie would long consider the second most important of her life (after the day she’d made friends with Angie, of course), there was only an empty kitchen to greet her when she came downstairs. Her father had left early again, then.

Above, at the top of the tower-house’s stairwell, her parents’ door was closed, which meant her mother was sleeping in after a late night at the hospital. Too bad. Megan had wanted an opinion on her outfit. Her mother had worked all weekend even though they’d just gotten back into town, so Megan hadn’t really had any chances to ask. As the Director of Emergency Medicine, she kept busy.

Megan glanced down at her outfit: her sky blue sundress, knee length and swirling, her rose red cardigan sweater, her shiny transmute-leather Mary Janes, and her silver Alpha-class bell-shaped charm[1] on a copper chain around her neck. The bell charm had been a gift, given to her by Angie (and made by Angie’s mother—it was a real charm, after all) for her eleventh birthday, to bring good luck for her Lantern Ceremony. Good luck, to Megan, had meant she wouldn’t be chosen as a Light Bearer by the Powers Above, and she hadn’t been. So good job, bell charm.

[1] A common shape for good luck charms and for charms of protection against both fiends and wicked spirits (which amounts to the same thing a lot of the time). Expensive, difficult to make enchanted bells were once one of the few reliable ways to identify demons, before the advent of photography.

She hadn’t really worn the bell charm since the last time she’d spoken with Angie. Megan hoped, now, that it might help again.

At any rate, the outfit would have to do.

Megan made coffee, then made herself some oatmeal, mixed in some milk and honey, cut up an apple, and took them over to the table. She placed her meal down into the dappled brightness and shade cast by the sunlight streaming through the branches and leaves of the many, many cherry bonsai that encircled their tower-house on the winding exterior garden-ramp. (Megan sometimes wondered why any of the towerhouses in Persephone’s Garden even had windows.) She used both hands to lift her silvery-blonde mass of roiling curls and throw them behind her as she sat down, so that they tumbled down the back of the chair instead of getting caught under her butt and between the chair back and her own.

As she ate, a gentle chiming came from Megan’s dress pocket. Her phone had finished turning on. She then felt it vibrate against her hip. Messages waiting. The phone’s weight, already enormous, impossible, seemed to redouble in her pocket. Megan tried to ignore her phone, with mixed success. Instead, she focused on what she wanted to say as she ate. Tried to ignore the butterflies trying to hurricane their way out of her stomach.

She finished eating and cleaned up after herself, singing to herself as she did so. She wished her phone’s speakers weren't so terrible—not that it held much music anyway, compared to her old PlayPod. Then, she drifted over to the front window. Unable to help herself, she pulled out her phone, clutching it in one hand.

Megan stood over the small succulents on the windowsill so that she could see the street in the opposite direction from school, peering through the cherry branches into the sunny, tree- and gaslamp-lined avenue outside their towerhouse, before glancing at her phone. She stood in silence for a while, regarding her top level message list.

Hundreds in the group message, of course, but that was just the result of spending most of the summer away and the other girls talking like normal—no one else had actually left the continent this summer. But individually, all in the last week... twenty-three from Lauren. Thirty-four from Katie “Kay”— good gods, Kay—nineteen from Katier, seventeen from Nisha... only eleven from Beth.

She felt the worst about Beth—the poor girl had been so distant and anxious the last few months of middle school. Exit exams, sure. Megan felt like there was more, but Beth had put on a brave face anytime Megan asked and said everything was fine.

She couldn’t let herself check what any of the texts said, to look at any messages on Social. It would be too distracting.

Megan raised her eyes again to look out the window, started to look back down at her phone, did a double-take back to the window as she realized she’d almost missed her chance entirely, even though it was early still, and sprang into motion. She rushed toward the door, scooping up her backbag from where she’d stuck it the evening before as she went.

She skidded to a stop on the interior mat. A note was stuck to the door, and from the the door handle hung a revolver, its simple wood paneled handle sticking out of the top of its holster, already peacebound, its blue gunmetal barrel poking out of the end.

The sticky note read,

Megan, don’t forget to take your sidearm. Have a great first day!

Love, Da

“Sure Da, if you say so,” she said to the note, sighing. “I’m more likely to shoot one of my classmates than a Beast, even if one does burrow up into the middle of the quad in the middle of the day, but whatever you want. I’m glad you took the time for the lovely, heartfelt note.”

Megan took the gun off the door handle and slid it into the sidearm pocket on her backbag, then was out the door.

MEGAN. TIME TO TRY.

The door thudded shut behind Megan, not loud, but audible enough that the skinny girl on the other side of the street, already a couple dozen paces past Megan’s front walk, froze in place next to one of the ubiquitous brass gas lamps lining the residential lane.

Their middle school had been in a different direction. Megan had hoped Angie wouldn’t detour just to avoid walking past Megan’s house on the way to high school. She’d been fortunate.

Angie wore crimson shorts (of a shade close to that of her short hair), a white tank-top, a black gun belt and holster, and white high top Converse. She stayed frozen for a long moment. Just as she shifted her weight to take another step, Megan found her voice and said, “Hey Angie! Wait up?”

Angie froze again, and then slowly turned toward Megan. As she did, Megan bounced down her front steps and lightly across the avenue. It wasn’t tracked for trolleys, so there wasn’t any danger of her tripping—not that Megan managed to do that often. A block or two away, the engine of a motorcar purred.

Angie extended one arm to wrap her hand around the pole of the gas lamp as if she were moving in slow motion. She regarded Megan with green eyes wide with shock, the swaths of freckles covering her face, arms, and shoulders stark against her pale skin. Bells started going off in every direction as a round of trolley cars arrived at various stops in the surrounding neighborhood.

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As Megan closed in on Angie, she took in how the other girl looked now, outside the frame of the single, unamused pic on her Social[1] profile, and, unable to help it, considered how she herself had changed.[2] Other than their heights—Megan stood sixteen decimeters tall, exactly, while Angie looked to be three or four centimeters taller than her now[3]—Megan O’Sadie and Angie McMillan stood a study of contrasts.

[1] Megan had felt queasy the rest of the day after realizing that if she didn’t find a picture, she might not be able to recognize Angie now.

[2] Megan had plenty of public pics on her own profile, but she somehow suspected Angie hadn’t checked any of them.

[3] They’d been nearly the same height all of their childhood too, but Megan had possessed the edge most of that time.

Angie’s short, asymmetrically styled hair[1], the color of ripe strawberries, seemed to glow like an ember in a dying fire in late summer’s morning sunlight. At first glance it seemed like it had to be dyed, but on closer examination one could see that her eyebrows matched and that there wasn’t even the faintest sign of roots showing through, that the fine hairs on her legs gleamed strawberry blonde in the sun, that the highlights of orange and gold in the swoops and swirls of her hair were too anarchic to be anything but natural.

[1] When Megan had checked Angie’s online profile to make sure she knew who she would be looking for, she’d been shocked to see the absence of the sleek blanket of flaming hair from her memory of late elementary school.

Angie’s face was diamond shaped, slathered with freckles[1], with high, sharp cheekbones, an equally sharp nose, jawline, and chin, and eyes that, had they not been shocked and staring at Megan as if she were a revenant[2], would have been narrow and keen. Just as thin and androgynous as she’d been when they were eight, if not thinner, Angie’s legs seemed long for her height, though that was perhaps an illusion caused by her shorts. Really, Angie seemed so thin that she didn’t look entirely healthy, like she was nearly nothing but bones. Megan hoped she was okay.

[1] Megan felt, as she always had, a touch of envy at noting Angie’s freckling. Megan herself had only a smattering of freckles across her own nose and cheeks, but she’d always wished she had more.

[2] Megan supposed that, in a way, to Angie, she might as well have been.

For her part, Megan’s ovoid face was just barely not fully round, with dimple-creased round apple cheeks, a small, upturned nose[1], and large blue-violet eyes. Her hair, half-bleached moon pale by the summer sun, half-shining gold, cascaded down over her backbag, to the point that her bag was all but buried under her swirl of wide curls. And as she’d been overtaken by adolescence, Megan had developed hips that wouldn’t quit. Growing. Maybe ever.

[1] A “perfect nose” Katie Kay liked to say with disgusted envy. Megan’s protestations that there was no such thing and that Katie’s nose was just as lovely fell on unhearing ears, about which Megan would then crankily think, large as they were, that they were what Katie ought to be insecure about, not her nose or her lips or her hair or her barely there pudge, and this was the point Megan would start feeling guilty about the unkind thoughts she was having about her friend, and Katie would usually be done with whatever tear she’d gone off on, and they’d all be able to move on to a different topic.

As Megan came within normal conversational distance, she saw that Angie’s grip on the pole was tight enough that her knuckles were bone white. Up close, Megan could see Celtic knots worked into Angie’s belt, and a triskele charm blending copper and some sort of dark stone hung from a silver chain around her neck. Her ears were pierced, and she wore studs of some sort of glossy, opaque green stone that matched her eyes. On each wrist she wore a wooden charm bracelet of some sort—Megan had to imagine Angie knew what the symbols on each meant and did, but Megan didn’t.

The two girls faced each other, and even though she’d played out how she wanted this conversation to go in her head over and over for weeks, Megan started panicking, her well composed opening flown from her head like a sated hummingbird from a honeysuckle. After far too long, moments before the silence would have surely made Megan’s head implode, she managed to make her mouth say, “Hey Angie. How’s it going?” It came out much more tentative than she’d intended.

Angie blinked twice, then opened her mouth. Then left it open without making any sort of noise at all for several seconds longer, before she said, “I don’t—I don’t think I know.” Her voice was different. Deeper, somewhat. More alto. But of course it was. So was Megan’s, after all, if not as much. (It might have also been the circumstances. Probably some of both.)

Megan’s mind raced, trying to reassemble something sensible out of the things she’d tried to prepare to say, but she could barely even remember what any of those even were, she hadn’t expected this reaction, she needed something else to go on—

“I’m dreaming, right? This can’t be real,” Angie said, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “I’ve dreamed shit like this before, lots. You can’t possibly be trying to talk to me like nothing’s happened, like it hasn’t been almost three years...” She paused, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled, slipped one strap from her shoulder, pulled a phone out of her backbag, looked at the screen. “Just over an hour before our first day of high school starts.” She paused again. Her brow creased, her eyes returned to Megan. “Then again,” she said, and that was a tone of voice that took Megan back, “It would be like you.”

Tears sprang to Megan’s eyes—gods, already! “I’m sorry,” she whispered, trying to blink them back. “I’m so sorry! I missed you so much!”

Angie’s mouth dropped open. After a moment, she said, “O-kay. This is happening. It’s actually shitting happening! Sacred shit. Sacred shit! Hateful stars[1], it’s bloody happening!” She took two deep, ragged breaths and then spun away from Megan, who’d been unprepared for such language from Angie.[2]

[1] Among the common knowledge possessed by nearly all sapient beings in The World Between, be they living biological beings or purely spiritual entities, are two particularly grave commandments: Never worship the sun. And no good ever comes from listening to stars.

[2] But, she didn’t have time to think about that at the moment and it’s not like she and the ladies were at all better.

Megan’s brain kicked in finally, retrieving at least a little of what she’d planned from the aether to whence it’d fled. Maybe the swearing had helped. That was certainly closer to what she’d pictured. A lot better, really. She’d half expected to be screamed at, to have to flee sobbing back into her house.

Even so, the words were so much harder than they’d all been in her head, or even out loud in front of her mirror. “Angie, I—” She cut off, swallowed. “I want to apologize. I’m so, so sorry. I know you have no reason to even listen to me, that you have every reason to hate me. You don’t have to forgive me. I don’t expect it, not ever. But, if you’re willing, I would, I would really love to start making it up to you, however I can, however you want. I’d like—I’d like it if we could be friends again. Some. As much as you would want.”

Without turning around, her voice faint, Angie said, “Spirits and Powers, Megan. There’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more, but bleeding, puking hells, do you, do you ever have some making up to do!” Her voice cracked as she said “making,” and Megan had to redouble her efforts at blinking back her tears.

“Yeah,” Megan said, and her own voice broke as she said it. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

“Do you?” Angie said in the general direction of the Shringis’ house. “Please tell me that’s not true. Please tell me you don’t know.”

Everything in Megan’s torso seemed to seize up. She wondered for a moment if she going to have a freak teenage heart attack and die or something, but no, she was just fucked up by the tone of Angie’s voice.

What… what the shit did that mean?

The breath frozen in Megan’s throat seemed to answer Angie’s question on its own, because she visibly relaxed, if only a bit. Angie turned, glanced at Megan over her shoulder, through the largest shock of hair she had available, with it all so short.[1] “What am I talking about, Megan?” Angie asked.

[1] A little bit of Megan was still grappling with the absence of the younger Angie’s flowing copper tresses. Megan’d been the one with the short hair when they’d been young. She’d spent so many hours braiding and brushing Angie’s beautiful hair when they’d been grade schoolers.

Megan wanted to jump into the sewer and die, because the hurt in Angie’s voice as she asked that question, the implicit accusation, and the fact that Megan had no idea, made Megan think that she’d shit up this whole situation more monumentally than she’d even imagined. Her mouth had been hanging open for so long. “I don’t—I don’t know? I’m sorry?” Megan’s tears defeated her blinkingest efforts and started rolling down her cheeks.

Angie visibly relaxed a little more. “You should figure it out,” she said, her voice ragged, her eye screened by her hair. She gave a hollow chuckle. “I mean, if Ryan or Evan don’t just confront you about it straight on. I dunno what they’ll do. Probably Ryan won’t even blink, but I’m not sure. This might even take him off guard.”