12 Phantasia (Exspiravit) Drive

––––––––

THROUGHOUT HISTORY, HUMANITY HAS SURVIVED A LOT. Through war and sacrifice, hunger and starvation, love and betrayal––we pulled through. Our scars were erased with time, and new ones soon opened up, while deep inside, our minds were torn apart by hate, infatuation, and stress. We have reached heights no other species have reached before. We built skyscrapers that defy gravity, we launched metal junk into the sky like slingshots, we programmed computers to drive our cars and solve mathematical equations using infinite units incomprehensible to our minds. We also invented extra-soft toilet paper.

But throughout all of this, all we have succeeded and pushed through––

There is one thing we have never fully recovered from.

Man, high school fucking sucks.

I pop my earphones in, scrolling through Spotify until I find my favourite playlist. A few brown curls fall from my HP hoodie, sticking to my face which is wet from the pouring rain. I itch to scratch my nose, but I'm afraid of rubbing off all of the concealer covering up my freckles––and when I say freckles, I mean freckles.

My name is Quincy. This was never my story, but don't you dare fucking forget my name.

Cue the music.

She keeps her Moët et Chandon, in her pretty cabinet.

'Let them eat cake,' she says––just like Marie Antoinette!

I tap my phone furiously for the time, the screen locked in place by sparkly cloud-tears. Usually, I like the rain.

Not when it's going to make me late.

A built-in remedy, for Khrushchev and Kennedy.

At any time an invitation you can't decline!

...Jada's going to (probably) kill me.

Meatball, my rescue albino cat, sticks his head out of my backpack, slitted, forget-me-not eyes seething at the street with distaste as Freddie Mercury bawls about murderous royalty. The black patch splashed over three-quarters of his head knocks into my temple and I yank his leather, silver-spiked collar back into the bag.

Well, good fucking morning to you, too, asshole.

Caviar and cigarettes! Well versed in etiquette!

Extraordinarily nice!

I make a turn at the corner, Converse splashing into murky puddles as lightning booms in the distance.

She's a Killer Queen! Gunpowder, gelatine!

Ding.

Dynamite with a laser beam! Guaranteed to blow your mind!

Anytime!

"Hey, Cassie." I sling off my backpack, plucking a miserable Meatball from the bag and handing it to the woman. I stare at her rhinestone-studded retro Heart tee with envy as she snuggles her cheek into Meatball's face and he purrs. Behind her, a baby's shrieks intermingle with the rain pattering on the shingles.

"How's Nabi?"

Cassie sighs. "I can't wait for daycare." She tucks a thin strand of her hot pink pixie cut behind an ear. "Have fun at school. See you at 4:00?"

"Yeah."

Recommended at the price, insatiable an appetite!

Wanna try?

I pull out my phone, checking the time.

8:01

Okay, the bus comes at 8:05, but I can make it if I run.

To avoid complications, she never kept the same address.

And I do...barely.

In conversation, she spoke just like a baroness!

I'm soaked with rain as I collapse on the also soaked bench, just as the bus rolls to a stop with a squeal.

Met a man from China, went down to Geisha Minor

Then again incidentally, if you're that way incliiined!

The doors let out a loud beep, and then the schwoom as they slide open. I force myself to my feet, and up the three rain-slick metal steps.

Schwoom.

Yeah.

Satisfying.

Perfume came naturally from Paris (naturally!), for cars she couldn't care less!

Fastidious and precise!

"Hey Sayim," I grunt, and then silently curse myself, and finally offer a smile and wave to the always innocently-friendly (if that's a word?) bus driver. He grins and waves back.

"'Morning, Quinn! What's it today?" He nods to the thick box squeezed beneath my arm. I pull it out, smiling at its worn cover as I present it to him.

"Howl's Moving Castle."

"The one with the wizards, right?"

"Exactly." I grin as I swipe my student card, nervously scanning the crowded vehicle––feeling the scrutinizing eyes and flat stares, and take a seat, my pleated skirt pooling out on the scratchy layer of stained indigo carpet.

She's a Killer Queen!

Gunpowder, gelatine!

Dynamite with a laser beam! Guaranteed to blow your mind!

Anytime!

I bring my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them as I open up the book, eyes boring over the page already even as I unfold its corner.

A half-hour later, we arrive, and I wave Sayim goodbye. I pull on my hoodie, hiding my face in its comforting shadows as I rush through the doors, once again checking my phone.

8:37

Seven minutes late.

I quickly run into the bathroom, swearing as I drop my backpack on the always sticky floor and rummage through it.

Taking out my plum eyeliner, I smear it around my hazel eyes in a cat-eye with a few touches of royal blue glitter, hoping the thickness might distract one from the little ants that weren't erased by oily magic. It takes me a few minutes, but I find my roseblood lipgloss and gingerly run it over my chapped lips, smacking them together a few times while enjoying its stickiness and strong, perfumy scent.

I blink a few times, eyebrows creasing together, before finally remembering. I open up the small pocket at the front of my backpack, pushing aside the two emergency pads and lip balm before finally finding the four silver rings. Three for my ears (two at the bottoms, one at the top on my right), and one for my nose. It was so painful when I got that one—I didn't even want to get it in the first place, and I think I look like a bull when I wear it—but Jada got one, and so of course everyone else got one, and everyone means me, too. It's fine. It's not like I'm goth.

That was a joke.

A touch of concealer over any of those annoying little zits that decided to make an appearance today (not much done to do a full cover up), and I'm ready.

I check my phone again, wait a minute for the ping, and grin.

I wink at my reflection as I toss my backpack over my shoulder (only one, of course, because that's what cool kids do), and fling open the door, sauntering out.

"Ms. Seinfeld, it is 8:46. You should've been in class 16 (strong emphasis on sixteen) minutes ago!" I pause in my sauntering, a small smile touching my lips.

"Ms. Seinfeld!

I turn around, looking startled, and clear my throat, regaining my pride.

Okay, here it goes.

...What I practiced for about an hour in the mirror last night. And I just know already that I'm about to fuck it up.

"You know, Mr. Singh, I have hopes." I pause dramatically. "I have dreams, too. I have hopes and I have dreams." I wave my hands to emphasize my point. "Just. Like. You. Sure, I am fifteen (sixteen, he scoffs under his breath) minutes late. But you don't know why. You don't know my life, yet you're my teacher. An ah-ma-zing teacher I might add, and you of all people—you of all the teachers out there, working every day, breaking sweat as they teach to the teached (the teached?), teach to the needy, teach to the children who will be the next generation of leaders, who are our future, Mr. Singh." I take a deep breath, letting my voice grow quiet. "You should know, the intricacies of a child, an innocent child—'s life." My eyes grow wide as I see Eli's seemingly detached head poke out from the hallway. He winks, giving a thumbs-up and a crooked smile.

Mr. Singh scoffs at my silence, "Out of words I see? Well, Ms. Seinfeld, that's det—"

Eli walks out from his spot, making sure to keep his steps extra loud, and comes up right next to the professor, his hand reaching for his blazer pocket. Mr. Singh whips around, scowling, just as Eli whips his hand back.

"Mr. Koffman! What are you doing out here?"

"Oh, 'morning Mr. Singh. Just awful weather today, eh?" He smiles politely. As he talks, coming up with some excuse about forgetting where room B22 was—even though it's April and we'd already had three full quadmesters of classes—he kicks his foot out, sending a little piece of plastic sliding towards me. I pick it up as Eli continues to distract Mr. Singh, holding in my giggles as I quietly exit the hallway, passing by room A15—Mr. Singh's first period on Mondays (and my second on Tuesdays).

I turn right, going down to the end of the hallway, and pass by a row of faded sepia-toned lockers. At the end, I scan the keycard, and proceed into the Teachers' Lounge.

"C, finally! You were taking so long I had to send Eli!" Jada exclaims, tossing back her perfectly styled caramel beach waves. I give an awkward, nervous laugh, and internally scream as she eases one arm around my waist, gives me a little squeeze, and tugs me towards the back of the room to a large circular desk. Ruby, Sophia, and Zack sit there, a shiny computer discarded in the very centre.

I take my seat at the desk as the computer slides across the table towards me. I study the little worn sticker on the top corner of the dark grey case, it's ID code and owner's name taunting me, because of course this isn't my computer, nor is it Ruby, Sophia, Zack, Eli, or Jada's.

Nope, it's Mr. Singh's.

Jada watches me, eyes bright and daring as she perches on the arm of a sofa.

A small jitter flutters in my stomach. Like a butterfly waking up from a long sleep, and unfurling its delicate, but quite large and powerful, wings.

Get it together, Quinn.

I'm a CIA agent, sent here on a mission to save the world. This computer is no ordinary computer, for it holds the command to release hundreds of deadly nukes upon the country—and I'm the only one that can prevent it!

Swallowing a knot, I open up the computer, and take out the keycard, its 9 digit code glimmering in the fluorescent lighting. A few bits of blue glitter from my eyes fall upon the table as I stare at it. I quickly type it into the bar, and I'm in. The next parts are easy, and come to me like remembering how to ride a bike. A bit choppy at first, but I find my rhythm.

As I do my work, the others begin to get bored, taking out their phones and scrolling through Insta or Tik Tok.

A small flicker of disappointment washes through me.

"Ruby?" Ruby wants to be an actress someday. Declares it every lunch, bragging about her latest modelling and commercial jigs. I saw her Dear Evan Hansen performance a few years back, and she was actually pretty good.

Ruby looks up from her phone, and I notice that the eyelash—so long it skims her eyebrow—on her right eye is a bit off. I open my mouth to say something about it, but I know she won't like me pointing out a mistake she made, because then she'll start pointing out all of my own "mistakes".

"Um," I croak, my voice going shrill.

Her eyes narrow at me, lips curling at the corners, like predator cornering prey. I swallow, squeezing my clammy fingers under the table. She holds my gaze, unwavering, until I can't take it anymore and look away.

"What grade do you, um..." When she remains silent, I dare to look up. She cocks her head to the side.

"Whatever grade you think I deserve," she says innocently, biting playfully on a long, baby pink nail that reminds me of Professor Umbridge.

It's a trap, and I know it.

I look at the little digits before me.

39%

I bite my lip, and I know my teeth are stained with grape.

I have to still make it look realistic.

An 89% is not going to fool anybody, neither will a 69% or 79%.

But maybe something in the 50's...

I decide quickly.

53%

Barely passing, but enough room to show she still is.

I look up at Ruby, her posture perfect—everything about her perfect. Her sharp ebony eyes reflect the blue glow of her screen, head tilted naturally.

I shutter.

54% it is.

I make a few more tweaks, also heading to Zach's account and increasing his own grade, and before I know it, the alarm is going off on Zach's phone.

"Six minutes to second period...Let's roll!" He claps his hands together and we all jump to our feet. On the computer, I'm about to erase its history, reroute the fire wall, exit out of all the tabs, and log out, but a hand lands on my shoulder. Sophia smiles down at me.

"You go ahead. I know how much you care about not being late to English." I nod, and hand her the keycard, too, as I know she has Mr. Singh next period.

I look at the clock.

9:13

We hurry out of the room, my heart beating fast. Just as I am exiting, Jada grabs my hand and pulls me aside.

"Good work, Quincy." She tucks a stray curl behind my ear, and fixes my eyeliner with the edge of a glossy turquoise nail. Pride bursts through me at her acknowledgement, and I beam.

I sputter, "Oh, you know, it was noth—"

"Jada!" Ruby purrs. Jada winks at me, then runs to join her BFF, Zach—her boyfriend—at her heels. She doesn't even like him, just keeps him around because he's popular, too, and she likes the gossip.

I head to my next period, English, my absolute favourite class for two, beautiful reasons:

One, I love the teacher: Ms. Wang. She always has the best book recommendations, and she's so amazing and encouraging, knowing she can get the best from all of us. She decorates her classroom in beautiful colours, poems and paintings on the walls and bean bag chairs and fluffy rugs acting as little reading nooks. A big wide window, open in the spring and summers to let in that cool little breeze and sunshine, gives a view of the Elroy Brooks High School Botanical Garden—donated anonymously a few years back.

Two, there's no Jada, Zach, Ari, Ruby, Sophia, or anyone else part of the clique. No Ri—No stress. No expectations to hold. I can breathe.

It's also the only class I don't have to purposely barely pass––because I have no one peering over my shoulder when I get my test or project marks back.

"'Morning Quinn," Ms. Wang calls over her shoulder as she adds new books to her collection on the big stained oak shelf.

The windows are closed, the rain still as harsh as this morning.

"Hi," I meekly respond, taking my seat in the corner right beside the window.

It's not like I'm gloriously outright about my appreciation.

The door creaks open again, letting in a flood of students complaining about the homework Mr. Singh has assigned on calculating algebraic formulas in geometric equations and blah blah blah, which supposedly is almost exactly the same as the homework assigned on Friday, and Thursday, and Wednesday, too. There's also talk of the school dance in May. Rumour has it the theme will be When You Wish Upon a Star. Since we're only eleventh graders, we don't exactly get a prom, but of course students just want another reason to stir some drama and romance.

Ugh.

I've never attended one before, and don't plan on attending one anytime soon.

Instead, Rita and I watch Star Wars and play Disney-themed board games and—

I squeeze my fingers, eyes stinging.

"Okay, everyone, let's take our seats!" 

––––

What did you guys think? Good first chapter? It took me a while to figure out the intro/hook. My first one was your average, waking up to the alarm clock and it's chaos and I thought––you know what? It's gotta be moody and philosophical and funny. I want to shock people. 

And if you didn't like it, the first chapter is completely different from the rest of the book. Trust me. There's a twist, and I love it. 

I might post some poetry this week, so stay tuned for updates? Other than that, see y'all next week!