IT HAD BEEN ALMOST TWO years ago now since Detective Lane visited our home. Sat up, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, though my mind was still dreaming. Could one really call this a dream – weren't dreams supposed to vary from the truth? It was more like an unshakable memory. Although on occasion, my subconscious did enjoy tossing in a version in which I took Graeme's place as demon dessert, just to shake things up. Or to spite me, who knows. Needless to say, I preferred the 'memories'. They were personal, familiar. Not that they helped me sleep any better.

The remainder of my morning happened in a methodical rush. I realised I had overslept, like any other teenager on the first school day of the year, when a rhythmic rattling met my bedroom door. When I answered it, Mom was standing there on the other side, tastefully dressed and holding her mid-knock fist in the air. She wore this knowledgeable expression as she stood aside and let me pass, like my self-ruling hair and baggy eyes were all the aide-mémoire she needed that I was not a morning person. I showered, brushed my teeth, slipped into the dress that I'd worn all through the summer, and suddenly I was stumbling down to the kitchen for breakfast. Mom was already outside revving Hyacinth, the Prius, by the time I had downed my glass of milk. As I put away the carton, I noticed that the red apples in the bowl on the kitchen counter looked particularly enticing that morning.

It was normally a five-minute drive from home to school, depending on traffic – and whether or not Mom drove at sixty Ks. Right now, she embodied a gypsy who had actually stolen this car and was trying to escape the police.

"Mom, slow down," I whimpered, my voice juddering with the car, but she ignored my directive like the speed limit was a suggestion. Fortunately, none of Raven Hills seemed to be awake yet, the streets were essentially barren.

"Have your verbena?"

"Yeah," I said, biting into my apple. It was not a lie per say, it was more like self-preservation. If she knew that I'd forgotten it, she would kill me. Kill me.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with supernatural botany, verbena is like the tangible equivalent of sunlight when it comes to protection against vampires. It has other names: vervain, pigeon's grass, the herb of the cross, or ma bian cao, as Mother's sources called it. It also made good tea. I had a healthy stash of it, specifically, in the wannabe-vintage trinket box on my dresser, but I had fallen out of the habit of taking some with me when I left the house – if it was ever a habit to begin with. Although, in all my years of enthusing over vampires, I had never met one, so maybe the stuff worked a little too well. Or maybe Mom needed to stop encouraging me.

The blue brick face of Raven Hills High came into view, and then there was the obligatory kiss on Mom's cheek before I skedaddled into the school's office. I hadn't finished my apple, so I hid it behind my back. The disciplinary committee, also known as the Executive Council, had been told to come to school with the eighth graders, a day in advance of all the other students, as was the custom. Evidently, I was the last to arrive, but they hadn't started the meeting yet. Finding a wall beside which to stand, I seemed to blend into the room as though I had never left for the holidays, the space as familiar to me now after five years as my own bedroom. But this year, I was someone important, not just a fly on the wall. I was the head girl.

I'm still trying to figure out why on earth they chose me.

Mrs. Harrison, our disciplinary coach, entered the room with a forced grin, proving that no one had been looking forward to the first day of school. She said something to us, but her words were lost on me. It was finally setting in, hardening like clay, the gravity of the fact that I really was the head girl now. Those were big shoes to fill, and I didn't even know if I had the feet for them.

"... today onward, the freshmen are your responsibility. And if they step out of line, it's on your heads, understand?"

Harrison left the office with those words, her sharp eyes trained on me. I didn't want her to leave. She'd had an unelaborated disliking towards me ever since she taught me maths in tenth grade, so I wasn't excited to see her, but with her exit came my moment – the head girl's moment – in undesired spotlight. Everyone was waiting for me; the head boy looked me straight in the eyes as he nodded to the front of the room. Dead. My brain had gone dead. I ogled my peers, my limbs shaking under my skin, feeling utterly useless as I failed to pull together a single thread of words. I was stuck, and to him it must have been obvious because he started forward. He stood in my place.

"Okay guys, by now you all know me," began my life saver. "I'm Graeme, the head boy – y'know, no big deal."

Graeme Crawford: platinum blonde hair, deep brown eyes, and a somewhat unintentionally mischievous smile. He was proud of his position, you could hear it in his voice, and I was proud of him. He may have sounded a tad boastful, but it was invigorating, and my attention was present for once. After all, to give my best friend an ear was the least I could do. The secret we kept was what sparked our kinship. Graeme had always been on the school rugby team, one of the cooler kids, but after that night, he didn't avoid me or act like nothing had happened. Maybe because he needed someone to know the truth, even if he maintained lies with everyone else.

"Leslie and I went ahead and compiled a schedule and some activities for the Eights –" The door burst open, interrupting his air quotes. It turned out that I was not the last arrival after all.

Enter a girl with a bright green dress and candy-coated heart. And her name was Louella Arnaud. "Bonjour," she sang, her strawberry blonde bangs bouncing on her head. "Sorry I'm late."

Louella was the mayor's daughter, and more importantly, my oldest friend. Yes, we were the terrible trio. I'd always thought she would be head girl over me, if looks, intellect, and status were anything to go by, she had no shortage. Lou had with her an unzipped backpack and a purple binder, which she gave to Graeme as suddenly and confidently as she did most things; without waiting for permission. She joined the crowd, standing next to me and giving me one of her snug good-morning hugs and whispered salutations.

"I thought you were still in Paris."

"Yeah, Poppa managed to smuggle me back in time for school," she sighed, as if she was anything but happy to be here.

"Lou," uttered Graeme, digging in to the contents of the binder, "you made a schedule?"

Some of the committee members started laughing at that, the kind of laughs that were muffled behind the palm of one's hand. She intervened.

"Well, as Chairpersons of Culture, Alexis and I," – she pointed to the blue-eyed brunette and back swiftly – "made the booklets for the freshmen. We thought it would come in handy, especially for the concert practices and such." The concert – every year, the disciplinary committee and the Eights would put together some cute musical at the end of initiation, as a final welcoming to the school. "We did take the notes you sent me into consideration."

"That's fine. I just didn't think you'd have the time for all this."

When Graeme thanked her, his overconfidence disappeared, and he morphed back into the Graeme only we really knew – the one who was more than a jock with a spotless record. He was bashful, almost reclusive, but he switched his charisma back on the moment Lou and I moved to assist him with handing out the schedules.

"So, the point is: have fun, but try not to get into trouble with Mrs. Harrison. Oh, and don't lose the kids."

He dismissed everyone thereafter. The EC members had about fifteen minutes before the Eights would start arriving at nine. Graeme and I moseyed Lou to the office bathroom, since she had apparently forgotten to use hers at home and was holding in an extra-large breakfast cappuccino from the plane.

"I'll only be a minute," she said.

Graeme leaned his weight against the wall and I did the same, looking through the booklets again as we waited. When I read what the Eights were to do on their ninth day, this newfound excitement toured my veins – the committee had nothing too crazy planned, but the new kids wouldn't have it that easy either.

"I think my favourite is still pageant day: bring a picture of your pet (or any animal) and dress like them. We made it sound so glamorous."

"Well, there will be a prize for the best-dressed Eight, so it's incredibly glamorous," laughed Graeme.

I smiled as I noticed how his eyes sparkled with each timbre of laughter. I seemed to be good at getting a chuckle out of him, despite how unfunny I thought I was. Sure, I laughed at his jokes too, but that was different; his were actually funny.

"Hey, Graeme. Thanks for saving my butt back there."

"Yeah, you're welcome," he said softly, like it was something sort of honour, and then he noticed the change in my demeanour. "What's wrong?"

My frown deepened as he asked. "You know me, just wondering why anyone in their right mind would make me head of anything."

"Maybe because you're smart," – he nudged his shoulder against mine affectionately – "and, like, the coolest and most likeable girl in the whole school. They believe in you. I mean, I believe in you."

I tried to think about the good in his words, to appreciate them, but I struggled to. I was not idolised, if anything, I was libelled for my interest in the paranormal.

"Since when am I anything but the girl who's obsessed with witchcraft, demons and voodoo?" I muttered out coldly.

"Come on, you know you're more than that," he said to me, his words sewn with sympathy.

I let out an 'as if' kind of sigh, but I could not help but smile. After the attack, Graeme could have pretended not to know me, but he didn't. Instead, he started spending breaks with me and Louella and helped deflect the nicknames being thrown at me way back when. His opinion was one of few that really mattered, and so if he believed in me, I had to believe in myself too, right?

"Thanks, Grae."

We turned our heads at the familiar creak of the bathroom door opening. Lou stepped out and grinned at us like she was trying to say she was ready, not just to meet the Eights, but her entire matric year head-on.

"It's time," she dramatized and threw her arms over our shoulders, walking us through the open doors of the office.

The sunlight shined down on us in a way that was almost blinding, and yet, just in that moment, it felt kind of revolutionary.

"That must have been some piss," said Graeme with a wicked laugh.

"Shut up, Graeme."

Moment's gone.