The vibrant leaves glowed as they sprinkled to the ground beneath Jasmine’s small white Velcro tennis shoes. She felt the crisp cool breeze on her cheeks as it carried the sound of children laughing and playing in the crunchy, messy piles on their first day at Houghton Academy, School for the Gifted Youth.
She was dressed in a matching white dress with a fluffy purple coat that reached below her knees. Her long, chestnut and wavy hair, framing her inquisitive sapphire eyes, fell loosely down her back.
Her mother held her hand across the street, then let go once they reached the sidewalk. Jasmine loathed the idea of meeting new people, and going to a new place.
“I don’t want to go to school!” she cried.
Her mother laughed and scooped her up in her arms.
“You’ll be alright,” she soothed. “Your teacher is really excited to meet you, and you’re going to make a lot of new friends.”
Jasmine peeked worriedly over her shoulder toward the kids lining along the wall, and felt a twinge in her belly.
“I will be back here to pick you up after school,” she said sadly, lowering her to the ground. She helped Jasmine’s arms through the straps of her backpack.
Jasmine walked away without saying a word, preoccupied with figuring out which classroom she was supposed to enter.
The morning drifted by with teachers filing students into their classrooms, and introducing them to their desks and assignments. Among the first grade Foreseers, Jasmine had already learned to write the entire alphabet and words in cursive, impressing their homeroom teacher, Mr. Zarek.
She was already way ahead of the game, and sat back in her seat and smiled at the sentences she wrote on the flimsy piece of paper in front of her. The red-headed boy next to her struggled with his cursive and kept erasing every letter.
Seated across from them, one girl with pigtails and a jean jacket and her friend with streaked black hair laughed at him. Their snickers made his pale face turn tomato red.
“Leave him alone,” Jasmine piped angrily.
The red-headed boy’s emerald eyes peered up from his crumpled sheet of paper, too afraid to speak. The girls stared at her silently. The one with pigtails raised an eyebrow.
“Make me,” she said.
Jasmine looked down at the table, defenseless, until she saw a bottle of glue.
Maybe I will…
The bullies smirked as Jasmine went back to her writing, feeling untouchable. Jasmine waited a moment before she heard their screams.
“EWWWWWW!!!!!!” cried the one with pigtails. “MR. ZZZZZZZZZ!!!!”
The red-headed boy laughed to tears as he watched them run to the sink, scrambling to wash the glue out of her hair.
Jasmine giggled quietly and sat her pencil down on the sheet of paper which read the word “Glue” in her delicate writing.
The scene drifted further away into her subconsciousness, like a hidden secret locked tightly in a treasure chest.
Jasmine’s streaming drool down her hand and on top of the bar woke her.
“Oh, God,” Jasmine said holding onto her head, rolling it around.
Shane, sitting at the windowsill on guard with his arms crossed, glanced over at the Scribe.
“Good morning, Princess,” he chuckled.
“Is this what a hangover feels like?” she groaned.
“Hell, no,” he said. “You only had one drink.”
She rubbed her red eyes, then pulled out her pen and sheet of paper.
A bottle of Aspirin and a glass of water manifested on the counter.