'Raine, is it too much to request that you wake up long enough to hand over your homework assignment?'

I lift my head clumsily from the desk, trying to hide the headphone that I've hidden in one ear to help me pass the time. I blink up at the menacing eyes boring down at me by my English tutor, who seems less than impressed that I dared to fall asleep during her lecture.

Honestly, with the monotone nature of her voice, I assumed she must be used to it by now.

I hear a few giggles and mutters from around the room at the dark red imprint on my forehead from the school desk, but I merely shake my fringe back in front of my tired eyes and clear my throat. I wiggle myself back into my chair, trying to ignore the way that it cracks from my restless sleep.

'The homework assignment.' I repeat slowly, 'Our assignment that was homework, yes.'

I begin to rummage around the papers that have collected in the bottom of my school bag, which are uncomfortably clumped together. I pull them apart, ripping a few that I hope aren't important, as I try to find anything of use, despite the fact that I do not remember a homework assignment at all.

My clumsy hands send doodles and notes completely unrelated to this, or pretty much any other class I take, cascading onto the floor, zipping around on the polished wood. I accidentally elbow the corner of the desk painfully, reaching for a particularly well shaded illustration of the kid who kicks the back of my chair, depicted with an axe in his head.

I love that drawing, I couldn't bear to part with it.

'Could I get the quick run-down of that one again?' I squint up.

'Your comparative piece on the political influences of Shakespeare's complete works.' She says crisply, and I try to remember a time in this class when we even looked at Shakespeare. Then I try to remember a time I paid enough attention to know.

The boy beside me coughs some joke about my lack of intellect, causing the class to erupt in laughter.

'Ah yes, that one.' I nod.

I lean down, pulling my backpack onto the desk, intentionally sending the colour-coded pens of the boy beside me flying onto the floor. He kicks the side of my chair grumpily, before leaning over to pick them up. Luckily for me, his movement coincides with the accidental dropping of my notebook, which slaps him loudly on the side of his stupid head.

He shoots back up, red faced and angry, glaring with flaming nostrils at the teacher. He looks a little bit like a horse, and I try not to laugh.

'Miss, did you see what she just did to me?' He bursts.

'Without assaulting any more of your classmates, Miss Carson, do you have your assignment or not?'

I can tell by the look in her eyes that no amusing or sarcastic comment is going to make up for this, so I shrug lightly, accepting my fate.

'Erm...'

I try to decide the best course of action, wondering if honesty will provide some level of leniency for my punishment. I would unfortunately however, bet the diploma I'm probably not going to get, that that's the definition of a pipe dream. The whole class is on the edge of their seats, praying for some kind of entertainment this afternoon, by witnessing the unleashing of the seven circles of hell on me.

'I might have my notes?' I squeak, fearfully.

The tutor raises her eyebrows so far up her forehead that they look as if they might get caught in the wretched woman's hair. A wave of slight recognition runs through me and I pull a slightly damp and stained piece of paper from my bag and hastily place it on top of the pile of crisp, carefully typed assignments from the other students.

I'm hoping that she won't notice that the entirety of my complex Shakespeare knowledge is a paragraph I copied from Cliff Notes three times over to make it seem as if I had done far more work than I actually had. Which was, well, zero.

I smile up at her sweetly and the movement reminds me just how numb my face is from sleeping on my arm. The smile also prays she'll go easy on me, but really, who am I kidding? My relationship with this woman is more strained than Satan and his big pal God. It's probably because she's a Christian and I am in fact, the devil, but who's keeping score?

'What is this stain?' She asks, turning her nose up as she holds the paper between her thumb and forefinger as though it were possible for her to catch some exotic disease from it.

I hear a cackle from the other side of the room and I can only imagine what kind of joke has just been told at my expense. The ink from my pen, mixed with the stains has caused the lettering to run together in a swirling mess of crap - which is a pretty accurate description of my assignment actually.

'The brown stains are coffee, and the damp is toilet water, but if it makes you feel any better, only one of those is actually my fault.' I explain, hoping she'll accept my excuse.

I grab the paper back and begin to rub it against my jeans (which I have to pretend are real school trousers to every single teacher, in every single class that I have ever taken). This only serves to merge together small clumps of paper, with the dye in my denim, transferring the colours between the two.

'It doesn't make me feel better Miss Carson, but do you know what does?' She scoffs, snatching the paper away from me before anymore damage can come from my clumsy and impulsive personality. The paper is a murky grey and I pick at the white spots on my trousers.

I raise a sarcastic eyebrow and chew lightly on my lower lip, running my memory through the location of tonight's detention classes, because we all know where this is heading.

'The knowledge that Harry Potter hasn't actually been proven fictional?' I try my luck.

'Detention.' She says, the look on her face impossibly close to murderous, 'And I expect your pages by the end of the week. It simply doesn't count to write the same paragraph over and over, Miss Carson.'

She moves away from me, onto the students far more worthy of her time, and I roll my eyes, wondering quite how it comes down to me, every day, to make these classes somewhat entertaining.

I'd like to know on which planet this woman resides or whether she was dropped on her head as a child. In the whole two years I've been in her class, I am yet to turn in a paper on time, or sometimes even at all. And yet, she still seems surprised whenever I make a feeble excuse about an unfortunate accident with a hungry dog, or a puddle, or a shredder recently purchased by my roommate.

One time, that last one wasn't even a lie. He decided to be hyper-productive and buy himself a state-of-the-art shredder, and for a few weeks it was his favourite pastime. Unfortunately, wine also happens to take his fancy, and you can fill in the rest of the blanks for yourselves. Since then, it's been hidden in our cupboard where he can't cause anymore destruction.

The class falls back into the hum of normal lessons, forgetting my mishap and ignoring me completely, as usual. This suits me just fine, and I spend the remaining time with one headphone tucked behind my ear so that no one can see it, a pen pretending to write on paper that's been clean since the first day of term when I wandered in twenty minutes late.

By the time the bell rings to signify the end of this hellhole, I'm already halfway out the door. I hear the tutor shouting after me, which only encourages my fast-paced legs. I'm so focused on leaving the room before she catches me in her talons, that I don't watch where I'm going and -

Thud.

The belongings in my arms go skidding around the corridor, bashing into walls and tripping kids as they hurry towards the exits, having had enough of Monday already. The cause of my collision looks down at me, and I can instantly feel the hatred bubbling up in my stomach.

Or maybe it's hunger, it's usually hunger.

The figure, taller than me by a foot, leans down and scoops up the pink detention slip that sadly didn't manage to lose itself in the confusion. By now, my books are being kicked around between students, some thinking of it as a game. Others avoid them like lava, worried they'll be expelled if they're seen daring to disrespect school property.

Their parents pay thousands for their attendance to this school, I think they're safe.

'Carson, have you ever made it through a school day without getting detention?'

I smile up at him sweetly, as he peers at my detention slip, wondering how I messed up this afternoon. I don't gesture my annoyance that he's picking up paper before helping me to my feet, because I know it wouldn't affect him in the slightest.

The boy standing in front of me, very helpfully making sure I don't miss (or accidentally forget) my detention, is my arch-nemesis, the modern day love child of Hitler and those women who always need to speak to a manager, the anti-Christ himself.

Asher-bloody-Thorne.

You might be thinking, it's 2014 - who even has an arch-nemesis anymore?

Just wait, you'll understand.

Before I can answer his question, he already moves on to ignoring me, stopping to reply to a few voices in the halls that ring out, congratulating him on his impeccable results in the winter finals. He also pauses to wave goodbye so some of the girls by his locker, who instantly giggle at the sheer sight of him.

This is just one of the reasons that Asher Thorne is the devil incarnate. Everyone loves him, and so because of his intense spotlight, he's learnt to love himself. Normally, I'm all for a strong sense of self, I just warn against one thing.

Do not become Asher Thorne.

Asher Thorne has completely surpassed any normal level of self worth and has spent so long with his head up his own ass that he's lost any and all concept of reality. He believes with every fragment of his being that he is the greatest gift that God has given to us peasant-folk.

Reason number two, he actually looks like he might have been sculpted by the Gods. I'm a hundred percent sure that people get so dazzled by his looks that they're somehow unable to hear him speak, because if they could, I'd guarantee he wouldn't be half as liked as he is.

The mere sound of his voice causes a feeling as though all my bones are exploding from the inside out.

It's almost as if people actually drown in the golden liquid of his eyes, and can no longer function properly around him. Luckily for me, I've created an impressive diversion. I've realised that I have the ability to generate such a hatred in him for me, that his eyes turn a dark brown and then I'm safe from their demonic hypnotism.

I'm expecting my Ted Talk on this very serious issue to be taking place soon, hopefully before he accidentally causes the apocalypse or something.

However, on days like today, through the pouring rain of outdoor sports, the weather has drenched his hair so much that the usual bouncy curls are flat on his forehead, covering most of his face and causing his thin glasses to steam up. I personally think it's an improvement, the less of his face that I can see, the better.

I guess people also like him because they think he's smart, and funny and maybe has the body of a Greek God, but does that count out an entire hideous personality? Not in my book, no thank you.

He's basically explosive diarrhoea in human form, with a straight A average.

'What do you want Thorne?' I say, snatching the slip from his hands and bending down to pick up my psychology book from beside my feet. The irritation seeps into my voice and my eyes narrow as he does his cocky, puffed-out chest routine in an attempt to intimidate me, 'I actually have places to be.'

In trying to exert his dominance like a pack mammal, he shoves the emblem for our school in my face, the gold lettering standing out against the blue blazer. It has the words 'Gillespie Thorne Academy' sown into the fabric, as well as something written in Latin that I've never taken the time to translate.

'Where, detention?' He retorts.

His voice is calmer than mine, light and humorous, probably on account of the fact that he gets to go home now, when I have to stay late. I can tell he enjoys these confrontations, but only when he wins them (which he's currently doing - I'll deny it if you ever tell anyone). Usually, I'll whip out some insult about his reputation as Thorne Academy's golden boy, or about his stupid face, and he'll scowl and sulk for a week.

'You know, I think you should abandon your career prospects as a lawyer and become a comedian, you're clearly a natural.' I snide back, remembering the awful hour we had to spend listening to his essay on his prospective future at the careers assembly.

'I'm surprised you know what career prospects are considering you don't have any.' He shoots back.

I roll my eyes, the irony of the whole situation almost painful in my tired brain.

Oh Thorne, if only you knew.

'Not all of us can be captain of every sports team in the school.' I mock him, twirling one of his curls around my finger and letting a droplet of water drip onto his nose, 'It wouldn't be fair to let anyone else have a turn, now would it Thorne?'

'Studies have shown that communities that participate in sport and recreation develop strong social bonds, are safer places and the people who live in them are generally healthier and happier than places where physical activity isn't a priority.' Asher rattles boringly, 'Maybe if you played a sport you'd actually get some friends.'

'I think you just do it for the fashionable letter jacket.' I say, flicking the sleeve that is poking out of his gym bag, 'You know you don't have to actually play a sport to get one of those. Just perk out that little butt of yours and I'm sure you'll grab the attention of one of the guys from the football team who'd be more than happy to lend you his.'

'I forgot about your qualification as master of seduction,' He grins, 'Especially since you've had - oh! A total of zero potential love interests at this school.'

'I've always had you following me around the halls, haven't I?' I tease.

Thorne smiles and leans down to pick up my geography book for me before leaning against the wall beside us, clearly settling in for what is undoubtedly a fiery debate. He flips the book open and notices the lack of notes with a shake of his head. Just as I'm about to whip the book from his hands and club him to death with it, my name is called from down the corridor.

Both of our heads spin around to face the slender woman in the tight skirt walking towards us. Any of the kids previously abusing my textbooks suddenly drop their heads to the floor and move more like a run than a walk. Asher and I are the only ones in the corridor that don't bother trying to impress her, or shy up against the walls in fear.

Asher quickly wipes the condensation from his glasses onto the corner of his jumper and pushes them back up his slender nose, as I begin to stuff my books into the bottom of my backpack. Asher dons a look of disgust at my casual and nonchalant treatment of my work and as the woman bends down to pick up the last of my books, he kicks me in the shin.

'Ouch, you little-'

'Raine!' The woman beams.

Her hair is pulled so tightly back into a bun that it seems to stretch her skin, and she's so pale that in certain lights, sometimes she looks translucent. Asher looks irritated that she's addressing me before him, and I manage to feel a little smug about that, even if my shin still really hurts.

'Headmistress Van Doren.' I say cheerily.

I feel the time to explain has passed us, so allow me. The woman before me, probably the only person I can stand in this entire hellhole, is Miss Van Doren - headmistress of Thorne Academy. For this, I have the utmost respect for her (mainly because for some reason, she likes me, and tends to give me lots of slack when I mess up). But, and this is a big but, she's also Asher's aunt.

I guess the whole 'golden boy' reputation is a little more understandable now, huh?

Despite how much it causes a shiver to run down my spine, Asher and I actually have something in common. He, like me, doesn't live with his parents. Instead, he lives with Miss Van Doren, although it's for very different reasons. I hate it, but every time this fact is reminded to me, I have to admit that part of me feels sorry for smug, arrogant Asher Thorne.

Not only does Asher have to carry around the sorrow of his parent's death, he also has to deal with the urban myths surrounding them that buzz around the school to the new kids, every year they come.

I can't say I haven't heard any, because everyone has, but I'm probably the only one, apart from Asher himself, who is yet to perpetuate any of them. Maybe my brain is hardwired to deny any speculation about family histories because of my own, but maybe part of me just doesn't want to see Thorne look as defeated as he seems to every first day of fall term when the rumours are at their most raw.

I can't tell you exactly what happened to his parents. The most popular rumour is that it was some twister murder-suicide, some in favour of his mother, most pointing to his father. It adds insult to injury that Asher's father used to be headmaster here, when kids spread ghost stories that it happened somewhere in his office to scare first-years.

The older students, who probably knew Asher's father better than he did himself, rejected these stories aggressively, but as they grew older and graduated, resistance pretty much stopped altogether, and the rumour mill spread like wildfire. All of a sudden, the most beloved headmaster of Thorne, became a killer, and Asher became an orphan.

Maybe they died in a car accident, maybe his mother really had committed suicide after his father left - I really couldn't tell you. Whatever happened, part of me felt a connection to Asher in this funny little way, even though he had no idea, and probably never would.

'I'm sorry to pull you away from what I'm sure is a fascination explanation as to why your textbooks are on the floor-' Headmistress Van Doren begins, flashing a sly smile towards Asher and I, 'But I just wanted to stop by and congratulate you on your impressive scores in the winter finals.'

Asher's jaw drops.

'You did brilliantly, tied with Asher in fact.' She continues, and I lap up the praise, ready to dump it on top of Asher when I gloat as soon as she's left, 'Well done, Ms Carson. Truly.'

Miss Van Doren places a warm hand on my forearm to congratulate me on my results, before striding away down the corridor. Asher's mouth is swinging from its hinges and staring, almost as if they had permanently dislodged. I work up a beaming smile, revelling in these precious moments of superiority.

'What's wrong Thorne?' I grin, turning to face him dead on and crossing my arms over my chest smugly.

'How do you do that?' Asher says, not with admiration, but with bleeding anger, 'You don't do any work! You fall asleep in class - it's impossible!'

'If you'll excuse me-' I say, kneeling down to pick up my final book, flicking my black strands of hair in his face, 'My brilliant brain needs a rest from all of your incessant whining about losing.'

'Not that I don't think you being on your knees is a beautiful metaphor for your status at this school, but you're in my way.' He sneers, clearly very unsettled as he steps around me.

I reach out the heel of my boot and clip his shoe as he storms away, causing him to stumble just enough to have to steady himself on the wall. He turns around, glaring so hard that I can almost see the blood pumping through the vein that's bursting on his forehead. I jump up, my smile seeming to cause a reaction on his face of pure rage.

'I think you'll find my status is right alongside you, my friend.' I remind him, patting a soothing hand on his shoulder, 'I beat you, don't forget Thorne.'

With that, I flounce away down the corridor, suddenly feeling much more optimistic about my detention with the lasting look of horror on his face. Behind me, I can almost head Asher's brain going into overdrive and shutting down as the cogs clatter against one another.

'You didn't beat me!' He bursts.

I skip the rest of the way to my detention, towards the thermodynamics corridor, where my little pink slip directs me. I notice that I'm a little late due to my argument with Asher, meaning I'll probably also earn myself an earful for my tardy attitude.

It's pretty much gotten to the point now, where there's a search team assembled if I don't turn up to detention every evening. It's sadly become par for the course for everyone around here. Everyone knows that I can't seem to go a day without gravely insulting someone, either a teacher, or their pet, or some favourite famous poet or scientist, which the tutors seem to take as a personal offence.

Thorne Academy is a large school to say the least, it's one of the most accomplished and well acclaimed in the entirety of England. Its classes only suit to the highest of achievers and to even earn your place, you have to take (and ace) four exams, and once you're in, it's almost double that per term.

Headmistress Van Doren likes to describe the process as 'the staircase to your future', and that's exactly why people spend thousands to come here. It holds the highest achieving students in the world. I like to think of it as a 'staircase to hell', but ever since I almost got expelled for changing it on the sign at the front of the building, I've had to learn to hold my tongue about that.

The reputation of the school leads to thousands of accents, ethnicities and opinions and yet somehow, Lord knows how, all of them have made the collective agreement to hate me. Probably because of my sarcasm, or my loud voice, or the fact that I wear jeans and boots that don't just ignore the dress code, they actively disobey it.

The hatred could be however, due to the fact that I've needed them to hate me for the entirety of my school career, but I can't be quite sure. If you rounded up all of the students at Thorne Academy, they'd all have something different to tell you about me.

I'm basically an unpopular Regina George but with black hair and a troubling school behavioural record.

I wait outside the lecture hall designated, and lean myself against the wall, awaiting my punishment and distracting myself by picking at my nail polish. By the time the tutor appears, the white tiles are covered in little black painted specs and he tuts at me. I stop him even bothering to talk, because the amount of times I've been reminded on the policy for nail varnish at the school actually still astounds me.

Once, I was made to go home to remove it. I had a lovely afternoon ignoring them, and returning the exact same the following day.

'Ah, Ms Carson.' Coach Eldon shakes his head, 'I can't say I'm shocked to see you here.'

See, didn't I tell you?

I'm pretty sure the only reason that detentions still exist here, is because of me. I've never seen anyone else here with me, in all six years of daily detentions.

Coach Eldon appears to have pulled the short straw in dealing with me today, and he rolls his eyes at me. I narrow my eyes at the bucket he's carrying and he smiles, a sickly smile that I know nothing good can ever come from. Despite my five minute protests about child labour laws, I take the trolley and kick it down the corridor towards the girl's toilets.

I slump down onto the lid of a toilet seat and yank the rubber gloves down past my wrists, all the way up to my elbow to try and protect me. Coach Eldon leans against the sinks and smiles as I rummage around in the bucket for a scrubber. I don't point out that he's definitely not allowed in the girl's bathrooms, because he's already fully aware.

He's not allowed in the girl's changing rooms either, and I've heard that rule doesn't deter him much either.

'You're not to leave until every last piece of graffiti is removed.' He says, pointing a chubby finger at me, before beginning to leave. He turns of his heel at the door, and becomes impossibly more happy with himself, 'Oh, and once you're finished in here - you'll need to do the same for the boy's toilets.'

He flounces away and I'm at least thankful for the silence, and the prayer that no one else will see me scrubbing away at the toilets.

The irony of the whole situation is that I'm the only person who ever really writes anything in here anyway, and it might be fun to revisit some old memories. I know Coach Eldon thinks he pulled a fast one on me by making clean the boy's toilets too, but the truth is, I don't use them, so there won't be any vandalism anyway.

If Asher had seen any, believe me, we'd have been called for an emergency assembly and a prompt, fatherly lecture about respect before you could read what was written.

I doubt that any of the other students here have ever damaged any school property, it's not sophisticated enough. Plus, no one here is remotely funny enough to think of anything clever to write anyway. Mine are brilliant however, and I turn around in the stall to find the funniest ones.

Ah, one from my fourth year written on top of the toilet roll dispenser, 'please do not do cocaine on me again!' I'm currently debating its usefulness in helping me get through these long, long days.

'Grace Settlby watches Asher Thorne in the gym showers'. That one was a little juvenile, but hey, I was only eleven. I wasn't always the comedy genius you now know me to be. The worst part is, their initials are in a love heart underneath, and I didn't draw that one. Rumour was back then, Grace had done it herself and then told everyone it was me.

Slam!

The loud noise comes from behind me and I lose my footing underneath me, sprawling myself under two cubicles, somehow. My eyes slam shut and my head clatters against the tile flooring as the door swings open on top of me. Seconds pass in silence before my reflex actions calm and my eyes open. When they meet the culprit of the noise however, they roll back in my head in irritation.

If God wanted to do me any favours, the toilets would overflow and drown me right here, but so far he's not been on my side, and today, unfortunately, is the same.

Cade Thomas. Second only to Asher Thorne himself, he's hands down the most irritating worm to ever slither the halls of this hellhole. So, it only makes sense that they're best friends.

'Hey bathroom.' Cade grins down at me.

'Oh Romeo, Romeo! I was beginning to think thou hast forgotten me.' I say, putting a hand over my chest and swooning, 'Pray tell, what are you doing in the ladies toilets? Art thou a pervert now?'

Sure enough, Asher comes striding towards me with a stupid grin on his face to join Cade, followed by the remaining two musketeers that he calls friends, Lennox and Phineas. The four of them are royalty at Thorne Academy, everyone else are the peasants. They rule with an iron fist, which I say metaphorically because I could easily take all four of these boys in a fight.

Plus, as kings they could really brush up on their royal decorum, believe me.

'Do you care to explain what you're doing in the school bathrooms past hours, in a cubicle, laid down?' Lennox comments, 'Wearing extremely fashionable pink rubber gloves might I add.'

'You walked past the bathroom earlier today, and my detention task is to clean up all the drool.' I grin, 'Honestly Lenny, you promised me you'd stop styling your hair like that, you have no idea the effect it has on us girls.'

'It's Lennox.' He snaps.

'Yeah whatever.' I chuckle, as I remove the gloves from my hands and slap them across Lennox's face. He recoils, swatting at his cheeks pathetically and spitting into the sink, where he doubles himself over. I've not even started cleaning anything in here yet, but he doesn't know that.

'Come here, hold still.' Phineas says, gripping the sides of Lennox's face and using some toilet roll to wipe him down.

'Oh my God, is this your big kiss scene? Do you want me to start playing the violin?' I gush, earning a glare from Phineas.

Asher tries to hide the lift of his chest by adjusting his glasses as he chuckles, but it doesn't work whatsoever and there's a grin on his face he can't get rid of. Lennox throws him a slight glare but I don't put any stock in them actually arguing in front of me.

'We've got you a little present, actually Cloud.' Cade beams.

'It's Raine.'

'Yeah whatever.' He waves a hand as I sit up, my fringe clouding my eyes.

Phineas steps out of the way so I can see over the sinks in the centre of the room to where all the cubicle doors opposite are open. My eyes are tired from a day of sleeping and not paying attention and so it takes a few seconds for them to land on a line of first years standing one to a toilet.

'Go my fairies!' Cade screams gleefully.

In unison, as if previously rehearsed, they all remove a permanent marker from their pockets and with varying degrees of length, write something in huge letters on the inside of the stalls. They all look horrified at their actions and I wonder what use of blackmail Cade has used on them. One of them is even crying.

'Are you kidding me?' I blow, jumping up to my feet and tossing the nylon pink gloves down at Asher's feet, 'Cade, I swear to God I'm gonna ram those markers so far up your-'

'Run!' Phineas shouts to the kids, and they begin to dissipate with unbelievable speed, 'Run children! She's on a rampage, it's not safe, save yourselves!'

My eyes trail to their faces, Cade and Phineas are grinning and Lennox cannot contain his laughter. Asher, on the other hand, clearly in the dark about Cade's plan, looks more annoyed than he should considering it'll take me another hour to clean it all.

I walk over and the last students begin to sprint. I kick open the doors one by one, noticing how he's instructed some of the students to lean down or stand on their tip toes so that I'll have to train as a contortionist to be able to clean them. I'd like to say that for all his planning, he's thought this through quite well, but there's one teeny tiny thing he's forgotten.

'You know I can just leave, don't you?' I tell him, and watch as he tries to stop his face from falling, 'I don't have a reputation for dedication, in case you forgot.'

'If you leave you'll end up with detention for the next six months.' He chuckles, trying to save himself from floundering, 'I'll tell Coach Eldon that you left early.'

'It's Christmas break in like four days Cade, I'll take my chances.' I say, dropping the scrubbing brush into his hands and throwing my bag over my shoulder.

'Well I'm not doing it.' Cade says after me.

'Like I care.' I tell him honestly, turning around just in time to catch the writing on the final cubicle. I can hardly keep in the laughter as I point him over to it, 'Cade made me do it! I'm assuming you didn't tell him to write that huh? Enjoy detention Romeo.'

I hear a stammer from Cade as he realises his fatal mistake. I can just leave, and I will. His crime is plastered across the stall walls, and even if that weren't enough motivation for him, we all know that Asher won't sleep knowing there's graffiti on there, and as if on cue, he demands the mess to be cleared up.

They immediately begin to pawn the responsibility off on one another, with Cade seeming to accumulate most of the blame. Asher doesn't even attempt to shout after me, and I chuckle that they now only have one pair of gloves and a scrubber between the four of them.

Revelling in their bickering over blame, I strut out of the room and towards the exit, picking up my pace to catch the only bus for another hour. Due to my lack of interest in exercise since the existence of the internet, I've fallen behind on my stamina, causing my breathing to be laboured by the time the bus pulls away from the stop.

It's only when I look up from picking a song to blast through my headphones that I notice Asher has joined the same journey and is scouring the seats for a place to sit down. He's already got a foul look on his face and I hope he doesn't notice me. I glance around; the only free seat is beside me.

Great.

'Hey bathroom.' He says, copying Cade because they're incapable of having an individual thought.

I flip him off and he walks towards me, sitting as far on my seat as humanly possible to annoy me, so much so that he would've been more comfortable staying standing. He says a few things to me, but by the time he's finished ramming his leg into mine in an attempt to get 'comfortable', my headphones are loud enough that I can't hear him.

Eventually after I ignore when he taps me on the shoulder, he pulls a headphone from my ear and looks me straight on. 'I need to ask you a proper question.' He says.

I roll my eyes and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, 'I didn't want to say anything, but you're right. I'm sorry to tell you Thorne, but that tie does actually clash with your eyes. I know this is difficult to hear.'

'You're killing me.' He huffs, shoving me off, 'Can't you ever just make a day easy for me Carson?'

'Is that your question?' I ask, enjoying him needing something from me, which is a very rare occurrence. I watch him debate with himself for a minute. A civil conversation is something that's never happened between us before and it's weird to hear the sincerity in his voice.

'How do you actually do well in finals? Do you have a tutor or something?' He asks.

I contemplate for a second admitting to my genius level of knowledge. But explaining one lie means having to explain another and it gets like a spider's web. Maybe on the last day of school I'll tell Thorne the truth, even if the only reason is to be able to be smug. But not today.

'I'm Bill Gates.' I shrug.

Clearly very unimpressed with my answer, he turns his back to me. I shove my headphones back in and wiggle myself into the chair, which only serves to push him closer to the edge. He's not any less grumpy by the time we arrive at his stop and he doesn't say anything when he gets off the bus in a very fancy neighborhood that reminds me of home. Not London though, obviously.

It's another ten minutes before the bus stops near my flat but the traffic makes it so I'm sitting there almost fifteen. I could wait another three stops to be right outside, but it's not too cold and it's not so far so I figure it would be faster to walk, and it turns out it is. My headphones still sit in my ears and I feel jolly despite the events of the day.

I unlock the door to our house and push my way inside, the door blocked by shoes that Emilio's kicked off behind him. I throw my keys into the bowl beside the door and tuck my headphones back into my pocket. By the looks of things, Emilio decided to go shopping again today, because he's bought us a new cactus for no apparent reason, since our kitchen is full of plants already.

'Hello young freeloader!' My roommate shouts as soon as he hears me.

I reply with an equally odd response and wiggle my feet around until my boots are loose enough to slide off, prickling my back on our cactus as I do, so I almost fall. I cuss the thing, flicking it, which only serves to hurt me more. I decide that the next time he goes out, which I think should be a few hours, I'm going to throw away all of our plants, and tell him we were robbed.

As I wander into the kitchen, I bid him a proper hello and pluck a bag of Doritos from his hands. I jump onto the counter and snack on a few myself, licking the remains from my fingertips. I didn't have time to eat much at lunch considering I was busy getting chewed out by my third period tutor for falling asleep in her class too.

I glance over at Emilio, my best friend and roommate and fancy suit wearer apparently, given his bizarre and surprising attire. I voice my confusion with a grunt, pointing to his clothing to which I receive a chuckle and a sly smile. He gestures down at his blazer and wiggles his eyebrows comically.

'What do you think?' He jokes, batting his eyelashes, 'I wasn't sure if the blue seemed official enough, but it's undeniable that it makes my eyes pop.'

Leo is one of the happiest people I know. He's currently working for my father, and has been since he was just a tiny fourteen year old pup. To any unsuspecting individual, he's a happy, healthy, flamboyantly gay twenty-four year old. To me, the growing fatigue lines on his face tell a different story. A hidden story that protects us both.

'What's the deal with the suit, pretty boy?' I question, slapping the collar so that it shuffles out of place and creases uncomfortably.

He tuts at me, backing away with a scowl and into the line of sight of the mirror in our kitchen. I asked why it was that we needed to be able to watch ourselves not washing the dishes, but he gave me a lecture about feng shui and told me it was my fault we were in this shitty apartment to begin with, so I just had to accept it.

'Don't tell me you forgot about my meeting with the agency tonight. I know you're self involved but we've been talking about this all week.' He gestures to the countertop where his appointment card resides, right next to his keys.

'You've got seventeen mirrors in your bedroom, and I'm self involved?' I chuckle. I pick up Emilio's card, reading its information and remembering the multiple arguments and discussions we've had about today, 'I'm sorry you've had to give up time combing your hair to go to this meeting, I know this must be very disruptive for you.'

'It's my favourite time of year - to check on your progress and see how you're doing.' Emilio replies sarcastically in a voice that mocks every agent that calls him this time of year to repeat exactly that, 'We all know it's basically to check whether I'm doing a good enough job. Your father isn't exactly subtle.'

He smiles in a mocking tone because of how patronising it is. Don't get me wrong, Emilio loves my dad, and vice versa. It's just when these meetings roll around annually, Leo isn't exactly heading the 'I love Percy' club. Prep for this meeting takes far too long and it's ridiculously gruelling to get through.

'It's been six years, shouldn't I be going to see him for myself by now? I'm old enough to tell him myself how often I shower.' I grumble for the millionth time.

I toss the card down with more force than I intended, and so it slips from the granite kitchen island and into the palm of Emilio's waiting hand. He flips it between his fingers before sliding it inside his jacket pocket, and then adjusting the lapels of his suit once more.

'I know kid, but you're not eighteen yet.' He reminds me, 'I'm sure by the next meeting you'll be allowed an input, but for now I'm still your lawfully legal guardian.'

'My awfully legal guardian.' I mutter.

'If you keep mouthing off, I'm going to tell your father you've joined a cult.' He jokes.

'You'll be the one who gets fired.' I smile, 'He can't fire his own daughter.'

Emilio fills a glass of water and swallows two pain relief pills which numb the aching of his tired head, having stayed up late preparing for this meeting for the past seven nights.

And he lectures me about leaving my homework until the night before.

'So,' He begins, giving one last tweak of his shirt, 'As far as anyone is concerned, you're doing well at school and you've got loads of friends and no one suspects a thing. They sound about right to you?'

'It sounds like a load of bullshit, but they'll buy it, I'm sure.' I grin, 'Tell them I have a boyfriend if you like, let's really push our luck this time.'

'We're already pushing it saying you've got friends, no one's going to believe that some poor soul has decided to date Satan's offspring.' Emilio remarks, chuckling.

I strip my tie from around my neck, then my blazer and throw both into the washing basket, both stained with bleach and toilet water from my detention. I kick Emilio gently for his remark and he leans forward, kissing the top of my head.

Then, he begins to spit a little bit, recoiling with a noise of shock, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve and pulling a face at me, 'Why the hell do you smell like a public bathroom?'

'I got detention again.' I admit, 'Today was manual labour.'

I raise my hand to my hair, attempting to pluck the damp remains away from the rest of the strands. Tutting, I tug hard and the black hair comes free from my head, landing in my lap and my original hair comes toppling onto my shoulders and curling to my back. I run my fingers through the curls that have been pinned up all day.

'If you tell me you were made to scrub away your own graffiti again, I'm going to take away every pen you have.' Emilio replies, pointing angrily at me, 'I'm serious, you've lost your right. From now on, you only get to use pencils or chalk.'

He shakes his head at me, pulling his fancy coat over his shoulders to protect him from the December chill, and then picking up a file and his takeaway coffee mug. He tries to hide a yawn, and I'm glad that at least by tonight this will all be over and he can get a good night's sleep.

'How dare you accuse me of such a horrible crime!' I feign a distraught and offended expression which he misses as his keys jangle in the door. 'I hope you make sure to tell my father at the meeting that you're being rude to his dearly beloved daughter.'

'Marzia, I'm a fully trained agent, you don't think I can tell when you're lying?' He grins, turning back to me for a moment.

'I am the victim in all this I'll have you know! It was bloody Asher and his posse again!' I defend.

'Really? It's absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you've done no homework in the entire six years you've been there?' He takes my silence as agreement and I stick my tongue out at him, 'You're mature.'

'You're not.' I grumble.

He rolls his eyes at me and smiles, 'Your wig shampoo is under the sink and I'll wash your jumper when I get back. I'd make you do it yourself, but in case you forgot, you flooded the kitchen last time.'

'So my punishment is that I don't have to do my own washing?' I squint, 'Emilio please stop, I'm on the verge of tears.'

'There's a meal in the fridge that just needs a few minutes in the microwave.' He says, completely ignoring my sarcastic comments, 'If anyone knocks at the door, don't answer it and for God's sakes, don't set the house on fire again please. I'll be home as soon as I can.'

I nod along, not paying attention, because he does this routine every time he leaves the house, and I only set fire to the house once and he's never let me forget it. After a slam of the door, he's gone and I'm alone. I spend a few minutes contemplating my evening, sitting on the island in the kitchen, before deciding that my first plan of action is to wash my wig, considering I can't go anywhere without it.

I spend fifteen minutes scrubbing it in the kitchen sink until it's almost brand new, before leaving it to dry hanging on the kitchen counter by the window. I wander back over to the door and flick through the mail, all addressed to either Raine Carson or Emilio Honour, so I don't really feel entitled to open either.

Most of them are probably university brochures that Thorne Academy keeps sending me, despite my non existent plans to attend one in this country. I run a finger over the date, 14th December 2014. A chill runs down my spine at the numbers and I can't decide which of many reasons why.

Reason one, it's almost the 27th, which is my eighteenth birthday. It's a terrifying number, it's the number that calls for questions, of where I am, what I'm doing, whether or not I have to go home. Emilio's contract ends as soon as I reach adulthood, and who knows what happens to me after that? All I know is, my birthday isn't going to be filled with my first alcoholic drink and those big shiny number balloons. Mainly because Emilio and I drink like sailors already and second because Emilio will make me pose with them for a photo, and then I'd be forced to kill him.

Reason number two, it's Christmas in little over a week from now. I can't decide this year if nerves or excitement rule my emotions. Maybe he'll come home this year, maybe he'll send a card. Maybe Loki will have found him, maybe he'll finally visit. Or realistically, he'll stay as silent as he always does and I'll be let down for a sixth year in a row.

I've never been one for gambling, but I'd say I know which one has pretty good odds.

The third reason is that the 31st is coming around way too fast. On New Years Eve, I will have hit the fifth anniversary of Christopher's death. It will be the fifth anniversary of his death that I will have spent by myself. It will have been the fifth anniversary since he died, but the sixth straight year since the last time I saw my family.

I shake the thoughts from my mind, who's to say my dad won't relocate me somewhere else? Somewhere sunny with a pool maybe, or Hogwarts, that's fine with me too. Maybe Emilio and I need to start brushing up on our Spanish. We've had a hundred conversations about what happens when this day comes, and none of them have ever really sat right,

With a beep from my phone, I notice the time and see a familiar face of Emilio appear on the screen. He's sent me a photo of him having spilt coffee all down his front. I chuckle and tuck it into my back pocket, leaving me standing in front of the mirror. Emilio's right, not that I'll ever tell him, but it does make the room seem bigger.

I tug my glasses away from my face and my sight immediately improves. I have perfect vision, but due to the need to be unrecognisable to anyone but Emilio, my normally blue eyes are coloured dark brown with contacts, and covered with thick rimmed glasses which are protected by the fringe of my black wig.

But with my entire disguise removed, I breathe, finally feeling like Marzia again, instead of Raine. I run a hand through my hair once more, the deep brown curling around my face, the colour that is iconic and undeniable for my family ancestry.

I waste a lot more time staring at my familiar but oh-so-unfamiliar appearance that I don't instantly notice the sudden clattering from the hallway. I crane my neck around the corner to see Emilio coming back through. There's anger littering his features and a scowl escaping his mouth. I almost don't clock these emotions however, given the steaming pizza box in his hand from the takeout round the corner.

'How come you're home so early?' I frown, taking the pizza box from his hands. I know I didn't spend that much time staring at myself in the mirror.

'They sent me back.' He says, and I don't notice the edge to his voice until there's a large bite of pizza already in my mouth, 'The meeting has been moved until tomorrow, and Zia - they need you there.'

I freeze. Emilio sends me a grave look and I know we're both thinking the same thing; this is what we talked about, this is what scared us. This is why those letters today hit me harder than they usually do.

I sit down heavily, the pizza suddenly turning my stomach. Emilio tosses his coat over the chair and comes to pull me into a hug. I can sense his desperation radiating from him, and I know for the hundredth time since we met, that Emilio is just as afraid of losing me as I am of losing him.

'No matter what, I've got you.' Emilio whispers to me.

He can try to soothe me all he wants but right now it isn't working. I'm going to be taken away again. There's a problem, and now I have to leave.

Home? A new country? With someone new?

The only answer I know for sure, is that nothing is going to be the same again.

No matter what, this little life in London is done.

Shit.