Back in the hotel I take a shower and prepare for my next ordeal. I manage to doze off just before Mom kicks me out of my bed and drags me back to school. She looks disgustingly fresh, but she's the magicking one. Me, I'm just running on adrenaline and bruises.

If you'd ask me what I would prefer, spending the day with a cluster of wild teenagers, or running around at night being shot at, I'd probably pick the latter. It's emotionally less taxing and certainly not as dangerous.

***

It's out there, waiting for us. A large, yellow whale, ready to swallow up innocent students and their teachers. The school bus looks hungry. I wonder if I should check out the license plates before entering, just in case they read 'Christine'. I never liked that book.

Yesterday I managed to snap an image of Camelia, my blonde nemesis, and sent it to Sweets, just before Mom and I had dinner at the burger place. Camelia Thistle… Candice Thistle. It's not a common surname, but according to Sweets' texted reply, she's not a relative. I suppress a smile. Sweets managed to sound a little jealous, and that's a new one. I didn't push, because I have my own problems: today my life at school will end, and my new classmates don't even know it yet. Amazing. This time I'll get into trouble before the regular academic year has even started.

I think asking Camelia if she was related to McKinnon might have been a mistake. They do have the same grey, flecked eyes. And they're both blondes, right? Wrong. Absently I scratch my right arm, wondering if that particular bruise came from last night's events, or from Camelia's claws. She made it abundantly clear David is hers. I'm not entirely sure what I did to receive this specific warning, though looking at David's butt could be sufficient reason. Camelia's surprisingly strong and by tomorrow I'll have some more bruises to add to my collection.

Last night I stole a flower, lost Sweets' present, and got a photo and some drugs in return. Then I went on killing a bunch of strangers. Perhaps the bruises are simply karma.

Big 'Lug' - his real name is Hank, but nobody calls him that - chats with David. Camelia is standing near the two, throwing foul glances at me and the Jennifers. That's what David's groupies are called, in a joke that escapes me but which seems to refer to an old television show, something ancient from the pre-Netflix days. The class nerds have their heads together, and William, the black guy with dreadlocks, tries to look cool so he can talk to me. I ignore all of them, including Camelia. She's here, waiting with the rest of us. The whole of C13 is present, except for Dexter who is probably busy filling in his New Zealand immigration forms. It's not just C13. There are kids from other classes, some trying to score extracurricular points, others trying to escape their parents, the heat, or both. And to my absolute horror, some of these kids might want to get on the school sports team. That's even worse, because A, it's sports, and B, it's school.

I don’t like school. The whole concept bewilders me. Push enough ideas in the heads of impressionable young people, long enough and hard enough, and some of those ideas just might stick. I don’t think it works that way. I am convinced teens should be left alone, free to run wild and, well, become better teens, which will automatically lead to better people. I for one could do without old books and musty classrooms, where bored teachers try to teach teens boring things. Like math.

According to my previous teacher Mr. Brown, my score was ‘interesting’... If A would be best and F would be worst they would have to add a few letters to the alphabet, past the Z, just to reflect my score. That’s what he told Mom, and she promised him I would attend some extra Math classes. So once the normal year starts I’ll have to attend every Wednesday afternoon. Trust me, it’s no fun being cooped up with grumpy teenagers, their hormones running wild. Half are on the hunt, half in denial, half barely adult, and the remainder are nothing but children. And all four halves are equally stupid.

Being surrounded by evil calculus and dark algebra doesn't make it any better.

Thanks, Mom.

Today's a Wednesday, but the extra Math lessons won't start before the regular year does, so Nuttley's High had to find something else to keep us busy. We go swimming and go trial for the school sports team. Sports as in 'sports'.

This time I've got no excuse. I don’t have to clean, paint or repair whatever dump Mom found for us to live in. There’s a 'plex waiting for us, one of six units set up in a former factory on the edge of town, being prepared right now. A few more days at the hotel and we’ll move to our new home, temporary as it might be. I hope it has no cellars, and I shudder.

I’m pretty sure Mom is not going to buy me a car or motorbike, so now I have to choose between grabbing a bus, getting a bicycle, or riding along with Mom every day. The teacher’s kid, being a good girl, living up to expectations. Unfortunately, I am not much of a good girl, never have been, and never will be.

And that’s because I stand out.

I admit purple hair is a bit uncommon, but I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen girls and boys sporting colors ranging from reddish-pink to green to neon orange. There’s dreadlocks and bald and half-shaven. There's curls and waves and ponytails and whatnot. One of David’s three groupies dares a rainbow so my purple manes won’t attract too much attention.

It’s not my marks either. They are average, mostly. My taste in music isn't common these days, but if people don’t like the Grateful Dead or Motley Crue then that's their loss. It’s not that I'm a teacher’s kid, or that I struggle with dandruff. It’s me. Plain and simple. So with a suitable amount of trepidation, and my swimsuit in a duffel bag, I enter the bus. I'm a good girl these days, but I've been a bad girl once.

And it still shows.

I'm surprised Hellhole has a public swimming pool. And yet it does, and an indoor one at that. The town seems too small to hold a library, hotel, shops, and still have room for people. Yet people live here. There's a school, and there are students like us. We all go together. There are some muttered complaints but that's Nuttley's. Organized group activities with adult supervision, leaving and returning together, and more of that nonsense, which means I will be riding back with all these people and all my shame.

I’m about to enter the bus when I hear the sound of an engine coming from above. It's a small, single-engine airplane. Someone's about to lose her license, and I wish that someone would be me. I imagine the pilot looking down at us - on us - and laughing, enjoying her freedom. The guy behind me pushes forward, and I half climb, half stumble into the bus, losing sight of the plane. I’m not a big fan of flying but anything's better than traveling by school bus

Sit down and ride. Enjoy your trip.

At every left turn, I catch a glimpse of the black SUV following us, so similar to the one we saw yesterday it makes me suspect a group-buy. I feel like I'm inside one of those old movies, sitting in a stationary car with a painted background running in an endless loop. It all feels unreal.

The painted background changes from Nuttley's to Main Street. We pass the Irish bar, with its parked motorbikes and green clovers, then the library and the hotel. Further down on Main Street there's a used-cars market on the right, followed by a cluster of shops on the left.

The large window of one of the shops is broken. Two men are carrying a large glass plane for repairs. They're watched by a small group of bystanders, and one fat, orange cat perched on a trashcan.

When we pass the cat jumps down. The can slowly topples over, startling one of the men. He stumbles, loses his grip, and a million pieces of glass scatter over the sidewalk and onto the street. We continue and turn left. The trashcan rolls onto the street, and the SUV trailing us brakes sharply.

The glass, the SUV, and the cat disappear from sight.

"You're okay?"

I look up. It's David. He slides into the seat next to me. The claw marks on my right arm start itching, and I look around for Camelia. She's two rows in front of me, the seat next to hers empty. She's still standing, toying with a thin silvery bracelet on her left wrist. Her eyes are on the outside world but her mind's elsewhere. When we halt at a traffic light I catch another glimpse of the airplane, hugging the horizon as if it's circling the town, and then it’s gone. Camelia’s intent stare makes way for an expression of stress, longing, and dreadful contemplation. I'm surprised by all that despair. She might just be human after all.

I look back at David and lie. "I'm fine.” I'm not. I'm still haunted by the images of dead people in orange coveralls.

David notices how I rub my arm and he smiles. He has a great smile, almost worth the pain Camelia will inflict upon me once she notices he left her. "You don't like swimming?" he asks.

I shrug. "I have my reasons."

"They must be good ones, I'm sure."

We're both silent. I look for the plane but it’s gone. The bus takes another turn, slows down for a brown express-delivery van whose driver isn't in a hurry. Our driver honks and makes some impolite gestures. Cathy McKinnon, sitting behind him, bends forward and whispers something in his ear. The gesturing immediately stops.

"Shouldn't you be with your... fiancée?" I ask..

"She's not my fiancée."

"You seem to be a couple."

He snorts. "Oh, she'd love that."

We make another turn and watch how the black SUV catches up. David sighs. "I wish he wouldn't do that."

"Who?"

"My dad." David points with his right-hand thumb over his shoulder towards the rear of the bus. "My dad's goons. And half the time I'm not even sure they are his, as everyone drives those same big black SUVs these days."

I look back through the rear window of the bus. Yep. It's that same car, or one very similar. "Goons?"

"My protection. The old man never lets me out of his sight. At first, I thought you and Camelia were his plants. Well. One of you. Two would have been excessive, even for him."

"What?"

"Be honest, why would anyone move to this place?" David gestures at the slow-moving background outside the bus.

"Hellhole."

"You know you're getting monosyllabic?"

I know. It's something I do whenever I get anxious. I look away and wonder who makes me more nervous, David, or Camelia? "Yes," I answer. Both, I think.

"See? Hellhole…” He laughs. “That's what you call it? An apt name, I guess. But yeah, why? Why are you here?"

"My mom's just a substitute teacher. I follow wherever she goes, you already know that."

"And my dad is Mister Kind, he owns half the town, and you already know that. I guess you could be telling the truth but, with two pretty girls showing up, and all that..." His voice dies.

I frown, and now it is his turn to look away.

"You wouldn't understand," he mutters.

It's true. I don't.