Sample chapters of Ghostling, my dark academia paranormal novel. You can now preorder in my shop.
Blurb
Etherall Valley Academy. It’s an elite school for students facing “unique challenges” – so there’s going to be drama.
Mimi’s unique challenge is her trio of invisible companions, but nobody can know about that. Her plan is to blend in, keep her head down, and simply survive her final year at this new high school.
That’s until she’s selected for the school’s gifted program. It’s a class like no other: seven very different teens with talents Mimi never suspected. Among them is bookish Drew, dark and solitary behind his facade of spikes, piercings and dramatic makeup. He barely looks at Mimi, and yet she always feels like he’s watching her.
Their mentor says their gathering is a convergence of their powers – that they must learn to use their gifts in balance and connection – but that’s not easy when secrets, rivalries and desires are in play.
Mimi just needs to survive her final year of high school. Literally.
First 2 Chapters
1: My Own Particular Unique Challenge
Most people thought it was just one bone, but in fact, it took twenty-two bones to make up the human skull.
The frontal, the occipital and parietal bones of the skull’s dome were fused by sutures as delicate and wriggly as a river system on a map. These were best drawn with a very fine pen, no thicker than a 0.05 nib.
“Hi!”
I looked up at the call, but the glass balcony of my parents’ short-stay apartment was smeared and blurry. I got out of my chair and looked down. Three teenagers who’d been splashing and shouting at each other in the swimming pool below were gazing up at me.
A boy with water-swooshed hair waved. “What’s your name?”
I hesitated, putting my sketchpad on the table. They looked friendly, but you could never be sure.
“Miette,” I answered, but it came out too quiet.
“What?”
“Miette!”
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind. I get called Mimi.”
“Jayden.” He pointed. “This is Chloe and that’s Holly.”
I waved.
“Where’re you from?” Holly called.
“Perry Ridge.”
“Where’s that?”
“In the north of Menoa County.”
“We’re from upstate,” Chloe put in.
My peripheral vision was swarming with shadows like a tank full of eels. I ignored them steadfastly. Mom was inside, pretending to tidy the kitchen but actually listening in on my conversation. Probably hoping her daughter still remembered how to make a friend.
“Coming for a swim?” Holly asked, breast stroking across the pool.
“Maybe.”
“Do it!” Jayden grinned up at me, his hair a wild, wet thatch. “The water’s perfect. And we don’t bite.”
Chloe giggled. “Only a little.”
“I’ll think about it.” In my experience, most kids bit.
“You can tell us what your name means!” Jayden called after me.
I slid the balcony door shut. Mom was standing there watching me, her round face hopeful. “They seem nice. Are you going down to swim with them, Mimi?”
I sank into a chair and opened my sketchbook to my half-finished skull. At my shoulders stood three dead people my mom couldn’t see: an old man, a young woman and a soldier.
“I don’t feel like swimming.”
***
Miette, as it happened, meant crumb.
It was French for little sweet morsel, technically—but the French used it to mean a crumb. As soon as I found out what it translated to, I switched to my nickname. Perhaps “Mimi” made me sound like a fluffy little dog, but it was better than crumb.
It was too late, anyway—my name was a self-fulfilling prophecy. By age twelve, I had crumbled. I’d stopped having friends. Stopped going to school. Stopped leaving the house unless I absolutely had to.
I’d always seen shadows—patches of darklight that accumulated when I was scared—but I thought little of it. Everyone had those, right? Everyone saw dense swirls of blackness in their peripheral vision when their distress levels spiked. Right? The shadows hovered constantly, but only moved, pushed forward, when I was upset. They didn’t speak. They didn’t have faces. They were just there, like reverse light beams.
The ghosts, on the other hand, were people. Ex-people. The first one came through when I was four. I was playing in my plastic junior kitchen, pretending to bake, when I looked up and noticed a boy in the room with me. He was about my age, wearing a long, white nightgown. He said his name was Walter. He smelled like woodsmoke—just a little. Enough for me to associate that smell with him ever after. His lips didn’t move when he spoke and his eyes were in shadow—blurred. It didn’t alarm me. At four, you accept uncanny things more readily.
Mom and Dad thought it was cute at first: Mimi and her imaginary friends. Dad, who’s a skeptic, nicknamed me Ghostling and encouraged me to tell him stories about Walter. Then Walter left and my next imaginary friend didn’t seem so adorable to my parents—a fifteen-year-old boy called Mortimer who’d died from a snakebite on a sugar plantation. Nor was the next one: a fifty-eight-year-old woman named Ethel who’d drowned in a ferry accident. The older I got, the more I insisted they were real. Mom and Dad grew increasingly worried.
Word got around—I was the girl who still had imaginary friends in middle school. A handful of the other kids were nice to me, but most treated me as if my eyes might roll back in my head at any moment. I learned not to talk about the ghosts, but my reputation stuck. I was an outcast. It wasn’t long before I was refusing to go to school at all.
The three imaginary friends I had with me now were my biggest spiritual crowd ever. I’d only ever had a maximum of two at a time. But earlier this year, my long-termers, Hannah and Albert, had been joined by Marvin. It was getting crowded. Car trips were especially unpleasant.
Hannah died in 1904. She was a maidservant, she said; same age as me. A particular herbal scent told me when she was nearby. Albert had died from complications of his injuries after the Second World War. He smelled like cigarette smoke and made a thumping noise with his cane when he walked. And Marvin had died on the streets. When he moved around, he occasionally left snowflakes that melted into droplets of water on the floor.
I could see why my parents were worried. Most teenagers, even the troubled ones, didn’t believe they were accompanied by invisible people who’ve died grisly deaths. Dad tried to get his little Ghostling some help. First it was therapy with my school counsellor, then he and Mom joined an online support group for parents of kids with unusual disorders. On the advice of the other group members, Mom tried to get me to explain what I saw. Initially, I complied, eager to talk about the ghosts. She pretended to be calm and interested while she listened, but later that day, it was obvious she’d been crying. I didn’t say anything about the ghosts after that. But I still wouldn’t go to school.
They’d recently taken me to see a top psychiatrist. My dad had known the guy a long time and said he really knew his stuff. I saw Dr Mayer every week for several months, my parents adjusting the household budget to pay for the expensive sessions. I told Dr Mayer the truth about my ghosts. Maybe it was a syndrome of some sort, and maybe he could help. I liked Mayer. He never once looked like he didn’t believe me, and nothing I said seemed to shock him.
But he got the diagnosis wrong. He told Mom and Dad I had unresolved trauma from some childhood incident I’d repressed, and that I needed either a stay in a mental health clinic upstate, or to go to a special school where they could give me extra support. My parents talked about it for a week, then decided we should try the school. Although I was pretty sure I had no repressed trauma, I was cautiously willing to try Etherall Valley Academy. I wanted to get into college and the curriculum was getting beyond our homeschooling capabilities. What’s more, this school asked students to apply with a creative portfolio, and I loved making art.
Also, it was hours away from my old school. Surely no rumours could follow me that far. I’d be careful at this new school. Keep my mouth shut about my imaginary friends. Keep my head down and focus on getting the work done so I could go to a good college. No need to make friends. I would treat it purely as a place of learning; a pathway to higher education. We sent off the application with samples of my art—mostly line-work drawings of skulls, organs, antlers and feathers. Mom implored me to draw some flowers or something, but anatomical art was my thing. Luckily, the principal wasn’t put off by my artistic style and I got offered a place.
Hell of a drive south, though. Three hours in the backseat, shivering uncontrollably. Mom and Dad had no idea how cold I was, snuggled up in the backseat with three ghosts. The icy blast of air people talk about when it comes to hauntings? That’s a thing. Whenever I’m in close proximity with my ghosts, it’s like being in the freezer section at the supermarket. Let’s just say I’ve learned to always take a jacket.
I tried to stop my teeth from chattering, my gaze fixed on my dad’s broadening bald patch and my mom’s smooth bob. Mom chattered about their upcoming trip to Paris, adding notes on her phone every time she thought of something else she wanted to see in the City of Light. Mom was a complete Francophile—hence the French names for me and my brother Lucien—and she’d been planning this trip for as long as I could remember. They’d saved up and finally taken the plunge, booking it for January on the proviso that I’d be living safely at boarding school.
They were amazing, my parents. They’d hardly had any fun for the past few years, while I was in that bad space. Even now, Dad had taken time off work so they could both come and stay in Etherall Valley for two weeks while I settled into the academy. Only after we were all confident it was going to work out would they head home—and then Mom was to start at a new job so they could afford to keep me at this expensive school.
They’d both sacrificed so much for me. I had to make this work.
So when Dad glanced at me in the rearview mirror, I smiled and pretended I wasn’t freezing my ass off, sitting with three dead people.
“Look,” Mom had said when we were only about forty-five minutes from our destination. “There’s that religious commune, Dale’s Run.”
I followed her gaze across the open, hilly country. A wooden gate hung wide at the top of a long driveway. The track meandered down the hill to a cluster of cottages with a church in the middle, like a mama duck with all its babies.
“I’ve always wanted a closer look at Dale’s Run,” Mom said, rolling down her window. Warm air, sweet with the scent of cut hay, rushed in.
Dad glanced down the hill. “You know it’s a fundamentalist community?”
“Of course I do. But it’s so picturesque and old fashioned-looking. It’s lovely.”
“There are quite a few religious sects that call Menoa County home.” Dad read and listened to podcasts a lot, and loved info-dumping. “There’s these guys—the Dale’s Run community—who reject technology and arrange their kids’ jobs and spouses. There’s a druid association floating around, too. And the Wiccans, obviously.
My Aunt Aurora—Mom’s sister—had taken up witchy hobbies in the past few years. She was always busy with her coven on full moons.
“I’ve even heard there’s some group that believe they can transcend this dimension.” Dad chuckled. “Maybe they’re waiting for the mothership to come pick them up.”
“I’m curious about the Dale’s Run lifestyle.” Mom was only half-listening to him.
“They’re extremists,” Dad said.
“I think they’re harmless,” she replied. “They just have a simple way of living. In a way, it’s quite beautiful.”
Dad shook his head. “Arranged marriages? Doesn’t sound harmless to me.”
Mom pointed. “Look, the gate’s open and there’s no keep out sign. Why don’t we drive through the village and have a closer look?”
Hannah touched my hand, a feather-light caress. I whipped it away, cowering against my seat.
“No, miss,” she whispered. “Don’t let them stop.”
“Beware.” Albert’s word smelled like smoldering tobacco.
“Tell her no!” Marvin hissed.
“Don’t stop here!” I exclaimed and Mom turned to look at me, surprised.
“Why not? What’s wrong, Mimi?”
I recovered myself as best I could. “I mean, um, I think I’m carsick. Can we just keep on going?”
Dad tried to see me in the rearview. “Of course. You should have spoken up, Mimi.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said weakly.
I tried to get the shuddering under control. I didn’t even care what the ghosts’ reasoning was; I just rubbed my arm, fought the rising nausea and tucked my right hand with its missing finger into my sleeve. I’m not scared of my ghosts, as such, but there was one rule: don’t let them touch you.
Mom twisted around to assess me more fully. “She’s very pale,” she told Dad. “You’d better stop so I can swap places with her. We’re only half an hour from the apartment now,” she added to me. “You’ll feel better riding up front.”
No shit.
2: Not Here to Make Friends
I woke early, nervous about my first day. It was set to be warm again and the apartment swimming pool sat as still and pale as a square-cut aquamarine. It looked icy, sitting in the shadow of the apartment building. Jayden and his friends had forgotten an inflatable lobster and it floated on the surface of the water, smiling up at the sky.
I dug my black one-piece swimsuit out of my case and wriggled into it, threw a hoodie over the top and caught the elevator down to the pool, clutching a towel. My ghosts appeared in the pool yard as I slipped through the gate. I checked the balconies of the apartment block but no one was around. I whipped off my hoodie and dove in.
The cold hit me like an explosion of painful ecstasy. I came up gasping and as soon as I’d got some air, went immediately back under. I thrashed my arms in the water, letting it chill every part of me. My swimming style was inexpert—probably ungainly—but nobody was around. I freestyled to the ladder, pulled myself out, then dove in again. This time, the water didn’t hit as cold, but its work was already done. I climbed out, wrapped up in the towel, and left the pool yard. I dripped all over the elevator floor but I felt clear-headed and calm. Rebooted. My ghosts were waiting for me when I got back inside the apartment.
My parents and I had been asked to come to school early. I breakfasted and showered and, despite the forecast warmth of the day, opted for my usual hoodie and jeans. I had my own air conditioning in the backseat with my ghosts, anyway.
Etherall Valley Academy was a sprawling, enclosed acreage out of town, sitting across the road from a woodland. At the front, a massive slab of polished granite had been planted in the turf like the first stage of a new Stonehenge. It bore the institution’s name in carved letters, along with its motto: Peace Through Learning. A symbol bloomed in the middle: an interconnected triple-spiral vaguely resembling a fidget spinner.
Mom parked and I climbed out, helping Dad heave my two roller cases out of the trunk. Clouds sprayed foam-white across the sky and the air seemed to hum. Was there a storm coming in? I peered through the barred metal gate, past a massive oak tree that had to be a couple of hundred years old. Its leaves were still green and acorns drooped in clumps at the ends of each branch; fat, glowing and ready to fall. For a moment, I itched to sketch one of them. Then it hit me all over again what I was doing here.
Beyond the oak tree, a close-shaven lawn rolled up to an imposing red-brick structure that appeared to have been modeled on the Smithsonian Institution. It had conical roofs and shining spires; stucco panels, leadlight windows and arched doorways. Even a gargoyle or two.
“I wonder if I’ll be in Gryffindor or Slytherin?” I said, flicking up the handle of my big case.
My parents laughed and Dad gave me a quick squeeze. “The school was once a quarantine station.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Nice.”
“It’s beautiful,” Mom enthused. “Fully restored.”
“They use the infirmary as the admin block these days,” Dad went on. “They had additional wards at the back which have been modernised and converted to classrooms and dormitories.”
Mom pressed the buzzer and gave them our names, then the gate rumbled open. I was chewing my lip so much I tasted blood. My parents ushered me past rosebushes covered in dark-red blooms, all the way up to the palatial admin block and through glass double-doors. Inside, we padded across velvety crimson carpet, past a mahogany staircase and up to a reception desk so wide you could have held a disco on it. So many of my fear-shadows were slithering around in every corner of my field of vision, I almost turned and ran back outside. I steadied myself and took a breath. The shadows receded slightly.
Out the windows on the other side of the office, the classroom blocks resembled, more than anything, cottages where old spinsters might live in between solving murder mysteries. About a dozen of those cottages dotted the school grounds, flanked by rainwater tanks and gardens. It gave me British village vibes. The only anomalies were the solar panel array on each roof and the high cyclone fencing ringing the property.
The school secretary welcomed us to the academy and immediately had me hand over my laptop and phone. A stressed-looking IT coordinator came and fetched them both. I watched forlornly as she took them away with her down a dim corridor.
“She’ll install the school intranet and set up site-blocking for banned websites,” the secretary explained. “Your laptop will be waiting for you in your room by the end of the day, and the head of the girls’ dorm will keep your phone in her office safe.”
Mom and I exchanged dismayed glances. The secretary said the principal could see us immediately and showed us into his office. It was dark and elegant, with varnished rosewood shelves and rich, midnight-blue drapes. My ghosts seemed to fit in, in a way.
Mr Boxe, on the other hand, did not. With his towering height and loud voice, I found him intimidating, despite a comically bushy ginger mustache. My fear-shadows reactivated, swirling and hovering around the corners of his office, pinging off my stress levels. Given the nature of the school, I’d expected something more like Dr Mayer with his soothing voice. Boxe’s manner didn’t seem to match Etherall Valley Academy at all.
He told me in a jolly, blustering tone that I wasn’t the only new kid starting today. I didn’t know what to say to that so I just stared at anything I could focus on: the pile of papers on his desk; the wedding ring on his finger. Thankfully my mother took over, asking about the no-phone policy. Mr Boxe explained that removing our phones was an important part of the wellbeing focus at the school. When teens were permitted phones, he said, they engaged with life less and became unable to find their own entertainment or explore different forms of fun. The same song most teachers sing. Put that way, Mom agreed, as long as she could call the dorm supervisor to get through to me in an emergency.
My nerves were hitting a new peak, making my jaw clench. Very soon, my parents would be driving away and I’d be left here on my own. Yes, they were staying in town, but this was boarding school, so I wouldn’t see them again until Friday afternoon. Mr Boxe said Mom was allowed to go with me to check out the girls’ dormitory, so I kissed Dad goodbye. He squeezed me in a big dad-hug and whispered that I knew where they were if I needed them. I attempted not to cry.
The principal led us across the grounds to the girls’ dorm. Classical music floated on the breeze—were they seriously piping Beethoven through the outdoor speaker system? That must deeply annoy the student body. Vestiges of the school’s former life as a quarantine station remained: a granite block with weathered carvings pointing to the cemetery and isolation ward; an old stone well, covered for safety with a rusted iron grate.
Mr Boxe explained that the living spaces, dining and common rooms were separate for boys and girls. He rattled off the schedule: school from eight-thirty until three, then study time. Then it was showers and room cleaning until dinner, finishing up with more study until quiet time in our own rooms at nine. Lights out at ten. We would help with serving the meals and clearing away on a roster system.
Prison vibes.
The girls’ dormitory was built from that same red brick and had its own square stucco spires and grinning twin gargoyles above the door. Mr Boxe handed us over to Ms Samvedi, the dorm head. She was small and wiry looking, with black hair cut short, and a no-bullshit manner. She also had a pretty tattoo of a ring on one of her fingers. I cautiously liked her.
Other girls, the ones who boarded on the weekends, trotted back and forth between their bedrooms, the dining room and the bathrooms, staring at me with undisguised curiosity. I kept my eyes on the varnished floorboards. Ms Samvedi showed us to my room, then my mom immediately asked about food, so the dorm head took her off to the kitchen to talk her through the menu. I sat on the single bed and looked around my new room.
Plain white walls with the odd trace of adhesive from the previous tenant. My posters would improve the blandness. The furniture consisted of an oak desk, chair, nightstand, wardrobe and dresser. Hannah was already sitting beside me on the bed, filling my nostrils with her herbaceous scent. Albert had claimed the chair, resting his cane against his knee, and Marvin was on the floor, leaning up against the wall in the corner.
“What do we think, team?” I asked. There were no objections.
The window above the desk overlooked the playing field. I got up and peered out. Kids were jogging around for what must be their own fitness purposes. Ick. It may have been my paranoid imagination, but they all looked tanned and long-legged. I checked the small wall mirror and was rewarded by my anxious face glaring out at me, frown lines between my eyebrows. My bottom lip looked raw and red from all the chewing. I sighed. At least my hair was good. My dead-straight, long dark hair had always been my best feature.
Mom came back, looking happier than I’d seen her in a long time.
“This place is wonderful, Mim! The menu looks delicious and Isha—Ms Samvedi—said you and I can have a little chat on her office phone tonight.” First name basis already? “And guess what? They’ve got some really cool social activities planned for the term, including a fall dance.” I smiled inwardly. It was cute that Mom thought I’d go to a dance. “This is a nice room, don’t you think? And you can make it your own with your things. I think—I think this place is just right for you!”
For an instant I was hurt. Is she glad to be leaving me here? But I got it, too. She’d been worrying about me for years. This was going to be like a holiday for her, to hand me over and let the school worry instead. She deserved a break. I promised her silently that I wouldn’t screw it up.
Other girls were arriving at the dorm now which meant it was time for Mom to leave. Ms Samvedi could see things might get emotional, so she facilitated a quick, clean departure, then plonked me in a beanbag in the common room to wait for the start of the school day.
I had a good view of the Monday morning proceedings. Some girls—the ones who lived local—only boarded during the week and went home for weekends. They were turning up now with their weekend bags, hugging their friends like they’d been away for months. There was no uniform here, and a relaxed dress codes. Most girls wore casual tops, some cropped, with shorts, skirts or jeans. There were even a few light summer dresses.
I panicked for a few minutes, thinking they all looked as confident and glamorous as influencers. Then I gave myself a reality check. These were normal girls: a mix of ages, shapes, colours and demeanors. A soft, round shaped one paused in front of me, clutching a buff spiralbound notebook. She had frizzy hair, sharp, intelligent eyes, and wore knee-length denim cutoffs with a red tee that said Genius shirt: just like a normal shirt, but with me in it.
“New girl?” she asked. “I’m Mona.”
“Mimi.”
She smiled. “Oh, wow.”
“I know. But it could be worse.”
She laughed and plopped into the beanbag next to mine, putting her notebook in her lap. “Weird time of year to start—three weeks into first term.”
“Trust me, I’m aware.”
“What school did you come from?”
“Homeschooling.”
“Ah.” Mona tipped her head. “But not anymore?”
I shook my head. My throat was getting tight with fear. It was like I’d forgotten how to talk to other kids after all these years of solitude. Fly under the radar, Mimi.
Mona’s gaze rested on my missing finger for a moment and I drew my hand reflexively back into the sleeve of my hoodie. “My family lives in Etherall Valley,” she said. “You?”
“We live three hours north.”
“Yikes, three hours. Don’t worry. There are others in the same boat.”
A bell rang and girls poured out of the bedrooms, all heading for the glass doors. Ms Samvedi shouted over the top of their chatter. “If you haven’t signed in, make sure you do so before you go to class! Melita Borgen! Your phone please!”
A girl with a tight ponytail scowled and passed her phone to the dorm head. Mona grinned at me. “Come on. Let’s find out what homeroom you’re in.”
***
Mona was in a different homeroom, so she dropped me off at the door of one of the cottage-classrooms.
“Gambatte ne!” she said as she turned to leave.
“Huh?”
“It means good luck in Japanese.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
I went in. The teacher introduced herself as Ms Deering. She was small and sweet-faced, but had eyes like a raptor: unblinking and everywhere at once.
She told the homeroom group my name. I was instant fresh meat for the twelve kids—excellent fodder for stares and whispers. They enjoyed themselves immensely and didn’t make any effort to hide the fact. I tried not to look at anyone’s face, but still they came at me. Only one kid had his back turned. He was bent over a book, wearing black on black, dark hair falling over his face. If only I could hide in a corner like him.
Ms Deering attempted to rescue me, asking me questions about my previous school and generally being encouraging. But I was monosyllabic—a hermit who’d been living in a cave so long she’d forgotten how to talk. One girl was especially curious. She was in a cropped top, with glorious red curls and thick makeup, possibly to cover her freckles. She ran her round, blue eyes over my jeans and hoodie.
“Why did your parents send you to Etherall Valley Academy?” she demanded.
I couldn’t keep a nervous stutter from my voice. “Th-they just liked the sound of it.”
“Liked the sound of it?” She laughed, but it was a cold sound. “No, we’ve all got a backstory here. Unless they just wanted a special school for their precious princess.”
“Call off the dogs, Cassie.” A boy with golden-brown hair winked at her and her mouth twisted into a smile almost unwillingly—as if she didn’t want to be amused but he’d made a good joke.
He looked back at me with warm brown eyes above a slightly crooked nose, possibly previously broken. When he smiled, it lit up his face and crinkled his eyes. He wore braces on his teeth.
He stretched out his long legs under the desk. “Don’t worry about Cassie. I mean, she’s right—we’re all suffering from something here. Cassie’s got chronic snark.”
“And Gabe’s got shocking case of over-confidence.” Cassie smirked at him.
“When people start at Etherall Valley Academy, we always ask ‘What are you in for?’” Gabe said.
A couple of the other kids agreed, volunteering their own reasons. Someone had been running with the wrong crowd at their old school. Someone else had a late diagnosis of ADHD and another girl been a school refuser, like me.
“Four years hard labor for, you know, being an outcast or failing—or getting expelled or having mental health issues.” Gabe shot me that bright smile again but I wasn’t about to share my story. I flicked a look at my ghosts: Albert, inspecting the noticeboard, Hannah, standing beside Ms Deering, and Marvin, wandering the room.
“You kids don’t know how lucky you are,” Ms Deering admonished them. “Sure, EVA is for kids who need extra support, but only if they show genuine promise and commitment. Your parents pay a lot of money for you to get a superior education that recognizes individual talent. A lot of other kids get lost in the system.”
“The trouble is, with talent comes ego.” Gabe gave her a cheeky grin.
“That can be the case,” she acknowledged with a laugh.
“And what if there’s no talent—just ego?” This was a new voice.
It took me a moment, then I saw they were all looking at the boy with his back turned. Some of the kids rolled their eyes and resumed their own conversations, but Cassie bit.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Drew?” Her voice had gone a little shrill. Clearly, this guy knew how to press her buttons. He turned his head.
I had the sensation of bellyflopping into a freezing lake. He was a goth, his face painted so white it was almost blue. Raven-black hair, long on top with the ends hanging over his eyebrows. A metal spiked dog collar on his neck, eyebrows pierced with black barbells, thick dark eyeliner. One eye bore a white contact lens and the other was an unlikely agate-green. But under all that, the curves of his jaw and cheek were, frankly, stunning. I had never been attracted to the goth look, but I responded to his face like I’d just spotted my favourite celebrity.
Drew addressed Cassie, but had his eyes on Ms Deering. “I don’t see talent when I look around. I see spoiled brats with delusions of grandeur.”
Cassie bristled, Gabe looked amused, but Ms Deering met his stare. “Respectful language,” was all she said.
Drew rolled his white-and green eye medley and shot me a disinterested glance. Then he stopped, fixating on my face with something that resembled shock. The silent moment went on for way too long, my cheeks growing hot under his scrutiny until I finally ripped my eyes away. When I checked back, he was looking down at his book. Had I fantasized that exchange?
“Whoa.” Gabe was glancing between me and Drew.
“What?” Cassie still sounded annoyed.
Gabe peered at me like he was trying to read something written under my skin. Then he shook his head, as if to say “Nothing.”
“Everyone at EVA has earned admission on the basis of a talent,” Cassie tossed the words at Drew. “Even you, Poetry-boy.”
Gabe leaned toward me. “If you won’t tell us the crime that got you a spot at EVA, Mimi, at least tell us your talent.”
My throat went tight again. I didn’t know how to answer him, so I stayed silent. I stared at my intertwined hands, the half-missing finger hidden by the others, and cringed inwardly while Cassie sniggered.
Ms Deering stepped in. “Maybe we should stop bombarding the poor girl with questions on her first day. If you must know, Mimi will be in the art program.”
“Nice.” When I checked Gabe’s face he gave me another smile. No sarcasm detected.
Cassie, however, sniffed like she thought art was a weak entry portfolio. A couple of the other kids asked me questions about what sort of drawings I did. My awkwardness levels were at painful, but I told them I liked portraiture. That was probably the best way to describe my anatomical drawing without sounding weird. I was determined simply to be Mimi the solitary, arty girl. Not Mimi the freak. Not Mimi-and-her-imaginary-friends.
The official release date is 1st February, 2025 but you can preorder now at early bird prices.