The week before school starts is a blur.

Hours whizz by so fast I cannot hope to catch them.

Dr. Light hasn't spoken three civil words to me since that afternoon. I am still reeling from the fact that Mum bought the baseball story, given that the window was smashed from the inside. I should feel lucky, but instead I find dread creeps into my bones.

The way Light looks at me doesn't help. As if he wants to say so much, but he's trapped.

I'm the one who's trapped, not him. I am too angry to be angry at him right now. All I know is he has reported lies to the Janus Foundation, informing them that there have been no new developments.

Developments. The word makes me want to spit. As if I'm some pet or performing monkey. Where is their humanity?

'Humanity?' Alyssa huffs a laugh. 'It's probably lodged up their'—

I cut her off as Mum approaches, brandishing my new rucksack like it's a suit of armour. A galaxy pattern is embroidered on a black background, stars shinning all around the edge. For my first day, I have dressed in smart, but causal clothes: grey designer jeans and a pastel green shirt topped with a large red coat. No jewellery.

"You look beautiful," says Mum, handing me the bag.

'You look like a Christmas Decoration,' Alyssa chips in.

'I don't remember asking for your opinion'. That seems to shut her up, for once. This is my day and she is not going to ruin it.

I won't let her.

Dr. Light is in bed with a monster headache, but even though sympathy dredges up my chest, I shove it down again. Wrong time. It's always the wrong time to think about him.

I can't help wondering what the right time is. Not today, apparently.

Light is the last person I need to focus on.

Mum ushers me to the car, more excitable than I am.

"I have to talk to the Principle when we arrive, so feel free to put as much space between us as possible to avoid embarrassment. Dr. Light will be picking you up at lunch for your session if that's okay".

It isn't, but I can't do anything except nod in obedience.

Whatever the Foundation requires, if it will keep them at bay.

Soon someone is bound to find the surveillance van. Somebody will find those bodies and I will be gone. Locked up like an animal.

Well, I'm not going to let that happen. Neither is Alyssa.

We both know she's too strong to let that happen.

The drive takes about half an hour, much shorter than the route into the city. Houses melt away, while my brain audibly clicks into a memory. I am seeing houses, but they're rundown and derelict. Moss gathers at their bases as if worshipping a God.

Wherever my mind is, it's not a good part of town. Mum glances at me as she stops at the lights.

"Are you nervous?" A little, but I am supposed to be her smiling daughter, a girl who is never afraid.

"I'm actually really excited," I say. If I don't answer properly, she won't guess how scared I am.

What if no one likes me? What if I am reduced to a mere spectre lurking at the back of the classroom?

Gripping the hem of my shirt, I force the smile to stay.

I am not going to be forgotten or left behind.

I have finally found somewhere I belong.

Nobody can take that away from me.

The lights flicker to green and Mum revs up the highway, hands tight against the wheel. I don't want her to be nervous that I'm going to school. It was my decision after all. I'll be fine.

We spend the rest of the journey in a majority of silence, throwing in odd comments about the state of the roads. Mum swerves to avoid a large grey bird, and I sit watching it until it finds the common sense to fly away. It's what she wants to do, what she needs to do. To fly.

Alyssa thinks I can't see inside her portion of our mind, but I can. I can see her desire, her need to be free. Of here, of this entire country. She wants to travel.

Since all I've ever wanted to do was find somewhere to call my own, she wants to explore. Typical.

As the trees fall away, Mum turns onto a huge drive, which snakes all the way up to what must be the Academy. It's not as tall as I was expecting. It's grand and ornate, like our house, but in a subtle way, as if it doesn't want to be called out for showing off. The exterior is capped with modern additions such as open-plan glass rooms, which gape at me like banshees. The rest of the building is made of wood, while odd brick-layered areas peek out from in-between subject suites. There's a whole block devoted to the Performing Arts as well as a relatively new Science block. My grin takes over.

Mum slides carefully into a parking space, grabbing her rucksack out of the footwell. She faces me expectantly.

"Go on. Get away before I can embarrass you," she smiles. I roll my eyes.

"You could never embarrass me," I tell her. Surely, it's the other way around.

To her surprise, I wait until she's collected her things before stepping out of the car. The building breathes over me like a God puffing clouds. Mum leads the way into the older part of the Academy, stone-faced and steady, while I trail behind.

It's as if I've already done something wrong.

My nearly empty bag bounces on my back, chiming to the rhythm of my heart. Mum bulldozes straight to the Principles Office, bypassing reception as well as many gaping students. I know how strange this must look. A girl somewhere between stick-thin and cage-fighter arriving in the final Grade. They must be wondering how, why, who. Mostly why.

People always want to know your deepest pains, your darkest secrets when they don't have any of their own.

The cold of the granite floor inches through my shoes, making me shiver. Monochrome Paper Mâché hangs at regular intervals on the walls, chasing me down the hall to the Principles Office. Opposite the wooden door stands a boy, chatting with friends. His cheeks are rosy, like two huge apples have decided to sit on his face. Mousy brown hair, reasonably tall. I almost want to laugh.

He's not as tall as me.

His stare vanishes in an instant replaced by the Principles creased brow. A man in his forties, with speckles of grey in his ginger beard. He's looking at me as if I'm some sort of bug on his windshield.

Nice to meet you too.

"Sorry, she wanted to come with me". Mum apologises, stepping forward to shake his hand.

Alyssa and I enact an elaborate daydream of ripping it off. Watching it wriggle, before coming to an inevitable stop. It's satisfying, but when I pull myself away from the image, relief washes over our mind. His hand is still attached.

That's what I want violence to be from now on – a daydream. Imagined, never enacted.

Alyssa says she's making no promises.

The Principle rubs his wrinkled forehead, pushing himself up from his cartoonish desk. It's so big it could be used to crush a Road Runner.

Ignoring me, he throws open the door where we've just come in. His finger does that pointy thing that I remember from my last High School. The Famous You're-In-Trouble Finger Point. Somehow, despite the unpleasantness of the man, I find I've missed it. To be fair, I do miss everything. The finger point locks onto its target – the boy who stared at me in the hall. He's still by his locker, this time on his phone. I can almost the feel the tension sparking in the air.

"Tremblay!" The Principle looms over him, even though he's at least an inch shorter. "Shouldn't you be in Homeroom by now?" The boy seems to animate, a wiry smile bursting to life on his face. Is Tremblay his first name?

"Err... Yes?" he says in way that makes me think he has no idea where he's supposed to be. I know the feeling.

The Principle sighs and gestures to me.

"Would you mind showing Alice there on your way?" Now the boy truly notices me. His whole body electrifies, and he shunts forward. If he salutes, I won't be surprised. Okay, he's just staring now. This is starting to get a little creepy. Perhaps very creepy.

"Sure. Yeah. Totally," he says. He speaks in rushed Haikus. Mum nods as I look to her for support. I know what I'm doing, I know this is where I belong. Living, out here in the world with everybody else. Where I – we – deserve to be.

'I told you,' cries Alyssa. 'Don't drag me into this'. For some reason, I have a strong feeling I won't need to do any dragging. I felt her twitch in anticipation in the driveway, felt her grumble about the Principle. I'm not the moron she takes me for.

"Go on". Mum ushers me out of the office, while the boy is still grinning. I'm tempted to call for help. How can he be so happy? He hasn't even met me yet. He spies my unsure expression, which I bully into a smile. He leans back, assesses my long hair and my blue eyes.

"Oh wow, hey. The Principle did not say you'd be coming. I mean, he might have done, but I wasn't listening. I'm Noah by the way. You're very pretty. Pretty new, that is. Let's go".

I've been shot. Each word he says is faster than any possible bullet.

Blushing, Noah starts to head down the hallway, baggy jeans dragging at his feet. Over the top of a checked shirt, he wears a dark blue bodywarmer. Against the regal halls of the Academy, he's incredibly out of the place. So am I. I'm not put-together, I'm not relaxed.

Noah is still talking. He can't stop. His mouth is one of those wind-up toys, unable to be silent until he runs out of energy. It's good, actually.

I've always wanted someone to fill the empty silence that I leave.

We sharply turn down a wooden atrium, where Noah lurches into his studies. History, Geography, Cooking. His family. Mum, Mother, little sister Nora. He talks and talks. I swear this corridor is getting longer on purpose. The problem is, the more I talk to him, the more I don't want to go to Homeroom. I doubt other people will talk to me with the same openness, the same energy.

"You don't talk much," he observes, jerking me back to reality. I'm tempted to tell him that's because I don't have any opportunity to do so.

As he waits for me to reply – which is a first – I let loose a wide grin. I have no idea how long that's been sitting there.

"You talk a lot," I say. He blushes again.

"Do I? I never noticed that before. I guess I do, huh? My Aunty says I talk a lot. She's a bit mean and old and smelly, but she's okay. Do you have any Aunties? Sorry, what were we talking about?" Don't sigh, don't sigh. With all the effort I can drag into my body, I shake my head.

"Nothing". Seemingly unfazed, Noah leads me onward to a broad doorway. This must be Homeroom. I stop with my hand on the smooth paintwork.

"Go on," he prompts. I remain inanimate, rimed in the frost of judgement. How many people will gawp? How many people will smile and welcome me?

"You do know this is a door, right?" Noah waits diligently beside me. Impatiently, but diligently. I suppose that's better than nothing. I can do this. Just open the door. I have power, I am strong.

'Yes, you are. It doesn't matter if they stare at you. Let them gawp. You can do this, now get in there!' Alyssa might as well have pushed me through the door because a millisecond later, I'm met by thirty staring faces.

Noah slides in next to me.

"This is..." he trails off. Oh, right. This is where I come in.

"Alice Callett". The Homeroom teacher – a young woman with tousled hair – nods her head in acknowledgment. She has a kind face, set against a soft set of clothes. Cream cardigan, matching the wallpaper.

"Hello, Alice. Why don't you take a seat with Noah and Emma over there?" It's one of those questions – posed like a statement. No room for argument. Fair enough. She does have an entire class of people to worry about.

Noah leads me hastily to the far right of the Homeroom, past several sketches of poseable wooden figurines on the wall. A noticeboard lies at the front, near the whiteboard, depicting various games and clubs. The walls have been recently painted white over an original cream background, enlarging the desk littered arena. Most of the shelves are at the back of the room, barricaded in red Psychology textbooks.

Noah plants me next to a girl with black hair, who chuckles at his tardiness. So, this is a regular occurrence then.

The girl – Emma – must have Chinese ancestry. She reminds me of a subdued warrior from the angles of her cheekbones and the melted gold in her stare. Her very expression is an art form.

"Emma Li. Nice to meet you," she whispers as the teacher launches into a very noncommittal re-telling of last semesters achievements.

"What about me?" Noah sticks his lip out in a goofy looking pout.

"I've known you for five years you moron". He leans back, faking a pained expression.

"Ah, so cruel". I lean toward Emma, a smile permanently attached to my face.

"Is he always like that?" I ask.

"No," she admits. "Sometimes, he's worse".

Noah is now miming an elaborate death scene.

Thank God the teacher is immersed in updating the register.

"You get used to him," Emma carries on. "You still get annoyed, but you get used to him".

The rest of the half hour is spent avoiding uncomfortable questions and lying. Lying quite a lot. Emma reassuringly tells me I don't have to talk if I don't want to, but I do. That's just it, I do.

I do want to talk to people, to tell them everything, but I can't.

"It's nearly nine. What class are you in first?" Scrabbling for my timetable, Emma helps me fish it out of my bag. It only arrived at the house yesterday, so I haven't had time to look at it.

"Math! Same. Wow, you have double Stats? You must be a literal genius," she says. Noah nearly falls off his chair.

"What options did you pick?" I need to move the conversation topic away from me. Far, far away.

"German, French and Product Design". Along with the compulsory Spanish, that's three languages.

"Wow," I breathe.

"Our girl is going to be a World Leader. She keeps saying communication is the key to peace," adds Noah proudly. Emma gives him a playful shove.

'Hear that, Alyssa? Communication is the key to peace,' I repeat. A muffled 'shut up' follows. It doesn't matter. I know she's seeing everything I'm seeing, listening to everything I'm hearing. I've sat through our memories, let her be my guidance.

Now I can be hers.

It's never occurred to me before how much school, how many mundane activities she's missed. Too many. All my fault.

Before my brain can lurch into self-loathing, the bell rings. It's a buzz, an insect's cry for help. But it makes all the students rise from their desks as if compelled. Odd how a single noise can have so much power.

Emma latches on my arm, drags me from Homeroom across the entirety of the school.

Noah is in a different class.

"He struggles with numbers," Emma tells me as we walk. That's fair.

I struggle with everything apart from those.

"I think you'll be with him for History though," she adds, and I force myself not to tell her that I won't be here after Lunch. I'd rather maintain the fantasy that I'm a regular girl, attending school to learn instead of trying to distract myself.

Our Math teacher is taller than Light, with broad shoulders and dark hair. He should have been interviewed as the school bodyguard instead.

"This joker has only been here a week and I think I'm actually getting dumber," Emma remarks as we bend over a textbook. The teacher's eyes flash over to us – to me. Under his glare, I shiver. There's something so, so wrong about him. Disconcerting. As if he's waiting for an order from God to pounce, to enact justice. Or some twisted version of it.

I felt safer in Mr. Dark's presence.

I've really got to stop calling him that.

'I told you it would stick,' Alyssa snickers.

Gulping back a laugh, I lunge into the simultaneous equations. Despite the teacher being about as helpful as a sloth, I manage to comprehend the work easily. Numbers are song lyrics, whispering through my ears in a constant rhythm. They will always be there, guiding me.

After Math, I have PE. The hall is wood panelled with a plush green floor.

In my mind, Alyssa hops up and down, readying herself for what appears to be Gymnastics. Pupils vault over gleaming pommel horses, while others contract into groups to argue over routines. Emma runs directly to the trampoline. All the equipment is vivid and relatively new. The colours entrench themselves into our memory, so much so Alyssa seems excited. She is actually excited about something mundane for once. A chill sizzles across my bones, snakes around my spine. She doesn't know.

The teacher – a robust looking woman – approaches us across the hall. In our pastel shirt, we don't appear very imposing.

"I have a note from your Doctor that you're supposed to sit out. We have benches over there". She points to a rickety seating area at the far end of the hall.

Alyssa is snarling, growling like a wildfire. She will burn; she won't be doused.

She will burn, and I can't stop her.