The girl looking back at me has hair the colour of charcoal, eyes like disco balls and a face like a warrior princess, but she isn't one. In fact, I'm anything but a warrior princess. A pebble sploshes into the pool, creating ripples. I look up and see the bullies, Dresden, Tornu and their gang surrounding me.

I don't want to hurt them. I really don't want to hurt anybody. But if they force me to, then I'm afraid that they would be on the losing end. My magic is seriously skilled, while theirs ... well, it is, at best, average.

"Hi. Dresden. Tornu," I say haltingly, trying to ignore the ominous cracking emitting from their knuckles. "You are up early today. On this fine morning." I gesture towards the sunny, mocking sky.

"Today, eh?" snorts Dresden. "You know what time of year it is today?"

I force a smile.

"'Course. 29th July. Summertime." I glance at them. "Don't tell me you're that dumb."

Tornu rolls his eyes. "Look. It's the Chicken being so brazen." He begins a cruel imitation of a growling chicken, which causes raucous laughter from their gang.

The Chicken. That's what I'm known as. The coward.

A familiar tingle starts up in my fingers and the tiniest of red sparks fly out of my multicoloured eyes.

"Anyway," says Tornu, his voice booming out like a gong, "today. Subject of discussion. Today, for your information, runt, is summer. And what happens in the summer?"

I know what happens in the summer. Everyone does. But I played up the I-don't-know-much angle for as long as possible. "Ah ... it's hot?"

"Yeah," cackles Dresden. "You're gonna be a hot pick for this year's Snatch."

As he says that last word, time itself stands still. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a sound. Nothing even seems to breathe. My blood runs cold as the flickers of my magic evaporate.

Just as my insides feel like they're about to freeze, this happens.

"Oi!"

"Desna!" I cry, shattering the painful silence.

The gang blink themselves back into reality as Desna, Hataki and Kristen come rushing at full throttle, and suddenly I'm taken by a desire to hug Kristen. Completely random and unfounded.

"Get away from her!" Desna shouts furiously, leaping in front of me like a human shield.

One of the boys—Duane, I think he's called—smirks. "Oh, I see now," he says, his voice literally dripping with sarcasm, "she's got a babysitter!"

"Omigosh!" gasps Tornu in exaggerated shock.

Kristen looks at me with two amber eyes. Let me, he says telepathically, and I nod. He's my best friend, after all. If I can't trust him or Desna or Hataki, who can I trust?

He locks eyes with Hataki, then Desna, and with a unified neatness, they twist their hands into a knot.

"ǟʄʟɛȶɛʍ ӄօռɖʀʊɛֆ ȶʀʏɢʏռ ʟɨօռɨֆ ʏӼɨʟ..."

The chant of Tweltian spells weave their way through the air like mist, the shining symbols reflecting the early morning light as they pour from their mouths. The spell for blasting.

The gang is lifted off their feet as the spell hits them, sending them flailing through the sky like helpless babies.

"Ersline Faverlow! Desna Faverlow! Hataki Faverlow! Kristen Lichnell!"

"Oh, spannit.." we say in unison.

Miss Vurnooya Clutchem, the discipline mistress, is a cat-like woman, ready to pounce on any mistake you make. She rules the roost in the community home, or the home for short, the place where all orphaned magichildren go to. She's our second worst nightmare, and has been given the affectionate nickname of Clutchem-Like-A-Vice. And she's the exact example of the ruling Puritans.

"Really, Faverlow," she says, her temper not improved by me kneeling down and the traces of spells still glittering, "who would have thought that you would have the guts to leave your bed unmade?"

I gawp at her like a dumb goldfish as I stand up.

"But, Miss, I—"

"Not another word. Get up there. Then as punishment, dust all the books in the library on shelf 84."

"Yes, Miss."

"Faverlow and Faverlow," she barks at Desna and Hataki, who immediately stand to attention like soldiers, "I expect you two to clean the Mass Hall before Mid-Morning Swears."

"Yes, Miss."

"And Lichnell!" Kristen strategically averts his eyes as her sentence descends. "Go and scrub the toilets. Now," she says dangerously.

"Yes, Miss."

Half a minute later, I find myself tearing up the stairs like a demented cheetah as I scale my way to the 12th floor of the home, where my dormitory is. I begin hate the Puritans more than ever before, submitting us to this humiliation and slavery.

I even wonder if I should hate myself for existing and decide, yes, I should, when I arrive, our of breath, at my dorm. Each dorm is divided into 16 cubicles, squeezey and plain, with a single steel-framed bed and a tiny clothes cupboard in each whitewashed bedroom.

Despondently, I open the door and walk along the central corridor that seems intent on inducing low spirits on anyone who enters until I reach the cubicle which bears the scrawled initials on the wall, 'EF'. EF. Ersline Faverlow. And sure enough, my bed beholds a single crease in the sheets.

One crease!

I swallow my rage with difficulty and straighten it out.

Later, in the library, the dust chokes me. The feather duster feels like lead in my hand, and the rows of books on shelf 84 stretch endlessly on.

Hey.

Hi Kristen, I say. His telepathic connection can only work with eye contact, so we've enlisted the help of sprite Sparks Circuit to build a Telecoustic. It's a thing that can be activated with a series of Tweltian spells, which then helps us communicate telepathically. And it's specially placed to evade detection by Puritan sensors.

How's it with you? he says.

Boring, I reply. Dusting has to be one of the most boring jobs in the world. And the worst part is, I'm allergic to dust.

Really, he says, it can't be that bad. I hate scrubbing toilets more.

At least you're not allergic to them.

No, seriously.

I giggle in my head.

Ersline, Kristen says, I've got something to tell you.

Nooo, I say, fearful of what he's going to say.

Ersline, I think—

I have to go, Kristen, I whisper. Clutchem-Like-A-Vice is coming. So long.

But, Ersline—

Really, Kristen. OK, that was a lie. But what other choice do I have? Our friendship is already perfect. I don't want any romantic stuff messing it all up.

I hang up with the Tweltian spell. This friendship has gotten weird in the past few months. Like Kristen wasn't satisfied with my companionship.  And all I want is a friend.

I finish dusting the final book half an hour later and move into my Pre-Swearing Shower in the bathroom. All magifolk have to be clean for announcing that they were inferior to the Puritans. And I begin wondering about my existence.