It didn't take much to convince the teacher in charge. All Damien needed to do was to present a drenched five-six, green-eyed, blond boy to him, state his cause—with Sander agreeing and supplementing the events of the incident—and negotiate with the teacher. All Sander needed to do next was to fill out a couple forms, one for transferring to another dorm room, the other for an incident report. Then things were settled.

    "I told you, they would've let you anyway," said Damien, walking alongside Sander.

    "But it would be the right thing to do to file a transfer," said Sander, his clothing and dark blond hair still wet, dragging his luggage behind him. "I don't want to get into any trouble." He paused, then asked, "Are you sure you're all right with me staying in your dorm room? Mister Brunner said I can just switch rooms with another sixth former—"

    "And risk getting beaten up and pushed around," interrupted Damien, "by being in their territory?"

    "But you paid them," said Sander.

    "Yeah, but I don't think they would keep their end of the deal," said Damien. "Buff fools like them."

    Sander opened his mouth to reason, but a thought came to mind, and he simply said, "You've got a point."

    They halted in their steps, and stood before a door.

    Damien shrugged and chuckled. "Besides," he said, turning the doorknob, "I don't have a roommate." The door swung open. "It's going to get lonely," he said, stepping into the room. Sander followed, pulling his luggage in. Damien closed the door behind them.

    Everything seemed fine—until they noticed a boy lying on one of the beds, nonchalant, busy typing away on his mobile phone. And, at the back of the room, a tall boy was looking out the window till the door creaked open, his attention now drawn to the two other boys standing a few paces from the door.

    "So," said Sander, pointing a finger from one boy to the other, "you were saying?"

    Damien seemed unperturbed by the intrusion. "He's one of my friends," he explained, gesturing towards the boy on the bed, "and"—he paused, thought for a second—"that's another dude."

    The boy on the bed noticed their arrival, a smile forming on his lips. Then he sat up, and made his way over to them.

    "Whassup, bruh?" said the boy, giving Damien a fist bump.

    Sander looked up at the boy, who stood about four inches taller than him. He recognized him—dark hair, tan skin, charismatic smile. The way he carried himself was a dead giveaway. He was one of the jocks, a fourth former, a boy notorious—even as a third former—for his many fleeting romances.

    "Saw what you did back there," said the jock. "But I didn't get to see the whole thing. Coach called me up in the middle of it, said we needed to talk. I had to bounce before you and those dudes came to a negotiation."

    Whilst he spoke, Sander noticed the other boy make his way over to them from the window, and he realized that prior to this he had never seen him before—didn't recognize this boy who stood about six feet tall, his tousled brown hair, his blue eyes. A new kid, Sander thought to himself.

    The new kid then stood beside the jock, and his eyes couldn't seem to help but glance at all three of them, from Damien to Sander to the boy at his immediate right.

    "Sander," said Damien, breaking his roommate's train of thought, "this is Jack. And, Jack," he said, turning back to the jock, "this is Sander."

    "Good to meet you, man," said Jack, stretching a hand forward. Sander took it. Jack gave him a firm handshake.

    "It's Christopher Alexander, actually," said Sander, releasing his grip on Jack's hand. "But everyone just calls me Sander."

    "Jerardo Forster," said Jack, his signature charismatic smile etched on his face, "but everyone calls me Jack."

    "Aren't you the third former who made the winning shot last season?" said Sander, aware of who this boy was. But just to be sure . . .

    "Yeah, that's me," said Jack, his brown eyes glinting with pride.

    "Impressive."

    "Hey, Jack," interjected Damien, his glance transferring to the tall boy who stood beside the jock. "Mind introducing your friend?"

    "Roommate," corrected the boy, his voice a smooth tenor, his countenance radiating confidence, "but hopefully soon-to-be-friend." A pause, as all eyes were on him, then he went on to say, "I'm Max, by the way. Maximilien Gascarth—since introducing yourself by your full name seems to be a thing here. I'm new."

    "Yeah. Haven't seen you around here before," said Damien, in realization. "I'm Damien," he added, "Damien Bautista."

    "Bautista," said Max, his blue eyes studying Damien's features. "Yep. You definitely look Hispanic."

    "Not Hispanic," said Damien. "My folks are Filipino."

    "Oh, Asian," said Max, realizing his mistake. He shook his head, embarrassed. "Didn't cross my mind."

    Damien chuckled.

    Amidst the conversation, no one noticed the inadvertent smile that made its way to Sander's face. They seemed all right, he thought. Even Damien, the known troublemaker, didn't seem so much of a bad person, after all, as the talks around school painted him to be. Then he thought, maybe—if nothing stupid were to happen, if they did nothing to break his trust in the long-run—they could be friends, all four of them—him, Damien, Jack, and Max.

    Maybe he could start again.

    The smile lingered on his face, and a pleasant warmth insinuated into his system—before he felt the cold caress his skin, making him slightly shiver. He looked down on his arms, then on his chest, his eyes on the damp navy blue shirt he was wearing.

    "Guys," said Sander, interrupting their conversation, "I'll go and take a shower, and change."

    Damien nodded.

    "Do what you have to do, man," said Jack.

    Sander pulled his luggage towards the direction of a neatly made bed, laid it on a space of floor at the foot, dropped his crossbody backpack beside it. He wiped his hands on the outer fabric of his luggage, and went on to fumble with the padlock, and zip the bag open. With one hand, Sander pulled out a towel, a gray tee, an olive green flannel shirt.

"My dad's part Maori," said Jack behind him, as the conversation went on. "My grandma's from New Zealand, and my grandad's Native American. My mom, on the other hand, she's Hispanic through and through."

    Out went a pair of jeans, underwear, and a small black bag.

    "Yeah, Dad's a fan of the All Blacks," Jack laughed, "thanks to Grandma. He played football in high school. That's why when I got into basketball and boxing and martial arts, and didn't bother with football, let's say he was kind of disappointed."

    He stuffed a pair of clean socks into one of his dry black sneakers, and left the shoes inches away beside the wet ones. And that's all I'll need, he thought, before shutting the luggage closed and attaching the padlock to the sliders. He slipped his bare feet into a pair of rubber sandals.

"I was in the soccer team in elementary school and most of middle school," Max was saying. He did a few faux dribbles with his feet.

And the next thing Damien, Jack, and Max heard, mid-conversation, was the thud of the door against the frame, and Sander's footsteps muting into the distance. A moment's distraction, silence enveloping them a few seconds.

    "So," said Jack, bringing them back to conversation, "where were we?"

    "Max quitting soccer for music," said Damien.

    Max went on to say, continuing where they left off, "I got into music in the eighth grade, when I first picked up the guitar. Then the bass, then the piano, then the drums. Been really passionate about it since."

    "I'm guessing you were in a band," said Damien, giving off a chuckle.

    "I was," said Max, a concoction of pride and nostalgia glinting in his blue eyes. "Lead guitar and backing vocals."

    "I play some instruments, too," said Jack. "Guitar, drums, a bit of piano."

    "Man, that's awesome," said Max, raising a hand. Jack gave him a high-five.

    Damien smiled to himself. "Looks like we're breaking some rules this year," he muttered, drawing Jack and Max's attention.

    "What do you mean?" asked Max, bewildered.

    "Screwing stereotypes," said Damien. "Real weird mix we've got here. Jock," he said, a finger pointing at Jack. "Musician." He pointed at Max. "Troublemaker." His finger pointed towards himself. "Nerd." He pointed behind him, to his left, and everyone knew he meant Sander, in the bathroom.

    Max gave him an approving look. "An all-dude version of The Breakfast Club," he quipped.

    "Then all we'll need next is a goth," said Jack, as a joke, "or one of those weird kids."

    Damien chuckled. "A freak."

They had arrived quite early this morning, earlier than necessary, and Lyn had already unpacked most of her things before noon, before she and her mother went to the office for their last meeting with the headmaster before school starts. By now, it was a few minutes past two o'clock in the afternoon, and Lyn was standing in the parking lot, the family car—a silver Fortuner—parked before her, while her mother was giving her last-minute reminders, words she had heard many times before.

    "If anything happens, just call me," said her mother, "and we can talk over the phone. Do you understand me?"

    Lyn nodded, and said, "Yes," her voice barely a whisper.

    "Are you sure you have everything you need?"

    Lyn nodded once more.

    Then another voice, a man's, half-scolded, "Cheer up, will you?"

    Lyn looked up at her father, a tall thin middle-aged man, with strands of silver mixed into his dark hair. He stood beside her mother, his face showing nothing but frustration. Lyn looked back down, her eyes fixed on the floor, and whispered, "Sorry."

    Her father produced an irate grunt, and he said, "Look at me when I'm talking to you, please."

    Lyn transferred her glance from the asphalt ground to her father. She could feel the tears behind her eyes, and she fought against the urge to cry. Out of fear, she didn't want to look, but Lyn knew she had no other choice.

    "How many times do I have to tell you not to worry?" said her father. "Nothing bad is going to happen. It's all in your head. I mean, look, these kids don't even know you, and you're still so afraid, so stressed that they're going to hurt you—doesn't that sound ridiculous?"

    Lyn simply nodded. But they will, she thought to herself. They'll come to know me and my weirdness, and they'll hurt me too like they did.

    "I'm telling you, you'll be fine. You get good grades, anyway. You wouldn't be so anxious if only you would listen to me."

    I do. I listen. She kept her eyes on her father, still fighting back the tears. She shouldn't cry, not in front of them, not for petty reasons. But your words don't help. They make nothing better.

    "So cheer up," said her father, patting her on the shoulder. "Just cheer up."

    It's not as easy as flipping a switch.

    Lyn took a breath, as subtle as she could, and couldn't help but look back down onto the floor beneath her. She had to stay calm. She shouldn't cry. Not here, not now.

    "You'll be okay," said her mother, her voice gentler. "You'll do good, believe me."

    She felt arms wrap around her, her mother giving her a tight embrace. Lyn reciprocated, awkwardly, placing her arms around her mother, the hug unnatural and stiff and constrained. She was never good with this—showing affection, expressing herself. Yet, that moment, tears threatened to spill, so Lyn permitted a few to escape, and the rest she held back.

    Her mother released her, and held her, as if to steady her daughter. Lyn looked into her mother's eyes, realizing she wasn't the only one holding back tears. Then, gently and absentmindedly, her mother's fingers combed through her long raven hair, before the look in her eyes dimmed deeper in gloom, as she stared at her daughter's dark tresses.

    Lyn knew why—it was no longer what it had once been—and a memory came to mind—the shock in her parents' eyes when she came home . . . different, the reprimand she received.

    It was on that one day over the summer, she remembered, that she decided to do something on impulse, out of the emptiness and the darkness she felt within, out of emotions she couldn't quite spill to anyone else. She wanted to feel alive; she wanted to feel something, anything other than the pull of the deep dark void.

    Her parents had gone to work that day, as was the usual routine. And, once she knew they had left, she sneaked out of the house, without their knowledge, and decided to pace the streets of downtown. Maybe all she needed was a walk, she thought to herself. Closing herself off from the world—imprisoning herself in her bedroom with only the company of her books, her music collection, and the sheets she hid under—seemed to be the only thing she could bring herself to do for almost the entirety of summer. But it had done no good: everyday she found herself in a cold dark world of her own, surrounded by voices that sometimes whispered, sometimes sang, sometimes screamed.

    She wanted out, even for a while.

    And so she walked past stores and cafes, past the cars that ran down the streets, past people and the conversations they held. But there was nothing less of the void and the dark and the cold; inside, amidst the busyness of the world, was an emptiness.

    Lyn's hands ran through her long brown hair, a part of her wishing to gradually pull every strand out. Then her eyes caught sight of a poster on a window, and it read,

DIVE IN TO CHANGE
BE FREE TO START AGAIN

in bold white letters; and between those verses was a picture of a woman's head under deep dark waters—her features beautiful, her eyes closed as if sleeping, her long, light blonde tresses swirling about her face.

    Lyn stared at it for quite a while, as others walked down the sidewalk. Two words, coupled with the image of the underwater angel and her halo, reminded her of a poet she liked, who she read had bleached her hair blonde after her exit from a psychiatric hospital. Start again, Lyn thought to herself. Start again.

    But she was not like the poet, she thought: the poet had seen the light at that time, yet all Lyn felt was a smothering darkness. Yet she knew, she was not who she was before, and she felt so different, and things have changed since. All she wanted now was to feel alive, and something reckless might do the trick.

    Lyn decided, then. Her feet walked forward, and a hand pushed the door open, and she stepped into the salon.

    She felt her mother release her grip on her shoulders, and Lyn found herself back in the present, far away from the memory. Her mother gave her one last look, and said, "Love you, sweetie." Then she turned to her husband, Lyn's father, and held his hand.

    Her father's eyes lingered on her mother for a few seconds, then shifted over to his daughter, the look in them stern, and he said, "Remember, be positive, okay?"

    Lyn nodded, in obedience. But that didn't mean she meant it.

    Her parents walked closer to the car, pulled the doors open, got in. Then the engine roared to life. Behind the windshield, her mother and father waved good-bye; Lyn waved back, and stepped to the side to make way. In silence, she watched the car move forward, maneuver out the parking lot, and soon disappear down the road, into the distance.

    Then they were gone.

    Lyn was alone now, she was sure of that. She glanced around, at the desolate parking lot, then above, at the clouds that hung overhead. Tears began to well up in her eyes. Then she shook her head, as if to shake the sentiment out her mind, and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand.

    Sure, her parents had their faults, some she could not forgive. But with them gone, things felt more uncertain, and more terrifying, and lonelier.

    Lyn heaved a sigh, and started to make her way out the parking lot, her steps slow, her mind deep in thought, calculating her chances of surviving at least this school year, thinking of ways to stay invisible. Then, by the time she was walking past the academic building, memories and words began to play in her head, and she felt a pain in her chest. She could hear voices begin to whisper strange noises, reciting an incomprehensible chant. But she knew what they were saying; she was hearing every word.

    On instinct, her hand reached down to the zipper of her black crossbody bag, zipped the bag open, pulled out her mobile phone and a pair of earbuds. Lyn plugged the wire in, positioned the earbuds into her ears. A thumb tapped on Music, pressed shuffle. A cover of a Linkin Park song started to play, beginning with someone plucking an electric guitar, producing a serene melody, then,

Crawling in my skin
These wounds, they will not heal
Fear is how I fall
Confusing what is real, what is real . . .

    That was the irony of physical things, tangible things, she thought—enrolling in a new school, dyeing one's hair light or dark or an eccentric shade. Change of the external kind, a pathetic symbolism of starting again. Yet there are the things that have dug their places deep within—memories engraved, wounds in the soul.

    And even with all these changes around her, Lyn still found herself waking each day, running, screaming in the labyrinth of shadows and demon voices.

Long pale fingers tapped against the windowsill by the passenger seat, carefully and rhythmically.

    The men had been watching them for quite some time now—the man, the woman, and, of most importance, the girl.

    "I must commend your keen eye, my brother," said one of the men, a tall pale man seated on the driver's seat. "I had not quite seen the resemblance at first. Now, however"—he paused, as he watched the mother embrace her daughter—"I have come to realize that it had all been a matter of color, and of hair."

    His companion smiled, brandishing his crooked white teeth. "Tsk, tsk. Oh, brother." He shook his head. "How could you have doubted me?"

    "My apologies, brother," said the other. "I must admit, I had been a fool."

    "Yes, you had been a fool," said the one with crooked teeth, his smile still dancing on his lips. "If only you had seen her back in the town square as I had, before she painted her hair as dark as the night sky, then you would have agreed with me beforehand."

    A moment's silence. The man and woman had disappeared from view, yet the girl seemed to be looking at someone, waving at someone.

    Long fingers drummed against the windowsill, and the one on the passenger seat said, "Shall we strike when her parents are gone?"

    "Must I warn you again of your impulse?" asked the other, as the girl stepped to the side, the car moving forward. "Remember, she had done it once, she can do it again."

    An irate frown concealed his crooked teeth, and the man grunted. "You always kill the bliss."

    "However," said the one on the driver's seat, "if she is truly the girl"—he smiled to himself at the thought—"then all we will need to find now is the last of them, the boy."

    The other's smile returned, now a grin that stretched wide across his thin pale face. "Precisely, my brother," he said. "Precisely."