Dreamworld

By Valerie Lynne Taylor

Is it a dream or destiny? In a normal world, surrounded by routine, Aadi Devereux is a girl whose imagination sometimes gets the best of her, as well as her past. She dreams of faraway, distant places that shouldn't be real. But soon, she gets pulled into a dream that could very well become a nightmare. Trapped in another dimension, Aadi must unravel the mystery of magic and make new allies in the process.

Raez Goddard has been running from destiny since he knew what the world meant. Yet, when he meets Aadi, he begins to question if destiny is set in stone, or if he can control his fate. Together, the two of them go on a journey that proves dreams can become reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valerie Lynne Taylor
• Release date: Nov 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463365977

Valerie Lynne Taylor

Valerie has been writing since she was a child and first learned how to make letters and sounds. A lover of adventure and dreams, she travels the world, and has lived in places like Japan, Australia, and Singapore for the past 8 years. She has degrees and certificates in Exercise Science, Personal Fitness, Dance, and Yoga, and works as a freelance writer and dancer. A modern day nomad, she believes the whole world is home and never wants to settle.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The sky was the same picturesque sight he’d seen since the first time the ghost-girl had waded through the waist-high grass. Her long wisps of dark brown hair caught the soft breeze that passed over the mountains. With each curling strand, red highlights glinted like the stars above. Same — it was always the same — no matter how many times he abandoned his room at a back alley inn to see the moonlit dance.

The ghost-girl intrigued him to no end.

Gracefully she spun, dancing to some silent beat available to only her ears. Lips colored like rose petals opened enough to draw in the magical air. The pale, almost translucent shade of her skin was cast in a powder blue from the moonlight, and there were scintillating sparkles of gold clinging to her. She no longer looked like a being fit for reality.

Who was she? Where did she come from? One day when all his tasks were through, he’d have to pull her aside for a word. There were so many things he had to know. That is, if he could grasp her ethereal form. The days when the ghost-girl did not appear in the sea of grass were some of the most lonesome hours he had ever experienced. Something about the way the stars reflected in the bronze pools of her eyes made him feel like he never had, and when those eyes weren’t visible, he felt empty again.

What if she thinks of me like everyone else does?

The grim thought faded. With meeting like this, where both of them were isolated yet together, the ghost-girl understood every detail about him, because she knew nothing. It was always better that way. Rising from the tide of green blades, the ghost brushed something only she could see from her billowing nightshirt. Then, something else caught her eye. Not a sound came from her as her fingertips caressed what looked to be a wildflower, and the corners of her mouth curled upwards for a cat-like grin. These were the movements that left him with questions. What value did she see in what others thought were mere weeds? Why did she love this landscape so?

As if he answer, she cast her bronze eyes to the world framing their existence, and he no choice but to consider the panorama, too. The observation of the emerald hills, amethyst mountains, and the flow of the vale felt like a routine to him, but she made it feel new every single time. The ghost-girl turned in a circle as she seemed to absorb the natural beauty of the land. Where did this delight come from? Did she even see the bright lights and red clock tower of the unnamed town? Ponder the possibility of onlookers? He wondered if the girl was untouched by the land’s chaotic airs and if her gaze showed her only what she wanted to see — as if it was all a dream.

He stretched out in his lonely corner, closing his eyes. What he wouldn’t give to dream a peaceful dream again. But whenever he tried, pieces of an age-old story, one unfit for bedtime tales, that sung to him since infancy would rise. Such was the plot of his life.

Long ago, when the first inhabitants of the world massed together in forests and caves, trembling and superstitious, the first of tales of life and death were born. These myths were painted on cave walls, for written language had yet to be developed. For centuries, no one realized these primitive fears were, to some extent, a living thing that could breath and evolve too. When people finally realized their existence, it took them years before naming the once mythological beasts sired by odium and ill-intent ‘nightmares’. And it was longer still before everyone cowered in the beds at eventide.

Nightmares gradually spread throughout the land. With their migration to the farthest corners, the tale of the Night Lord went from town gossip to bedside tales. It was a story meant to keep children from doing anything naughty, while reminding the adults that they could fall prey to the darkness at anytime.

Ages passed before a poet had enough gall to use the tale for the basis of a two-part epic. Though many thought it to be fantasy, the writer’s poem was reportedly the memories of a nightmare temptress who had found her way into the arms of a rich but inconsolable homini man. From the moment their half-nightmare child was conceived and up to birth, he was condemned to the darkness. When the boy was but a toddler, the temptress faded into mist and left the homini man to learn from his mistake. Just as the myths had predicted, someone had birthed a Night Lord—he was neither man nor monster.

Shielded by his sorry father, nobility became the foundation of the boy’s closed world. The child knew he was different and wanted nothing more than to belong. However, the people of the land didn’t want him. Thus, when faithful servants from the Night Court came calling his name, asking him to partake of a rite to retrieve his throne, he eagerly agreed to the conditions. From then on, the young man left his father alone and entered into a world that abhorred him because of who he was.

The poet didn’t leave the tale at that, however. The stanzas transformed an innocent child into a heartless adolescent. Prose changed him from an innocent to a murderer. Blood on his hands tore the smile from his face. No one could escape his grief, and he couldn’t escape himself. That was to be the fate of the half-nightmare prince.

Ah, but it’s all just fiction for now.

Opening his eyelids lazily, he sighed. The vale was unoccupied once again. Wherever the ghost-girl had gone, she was somewhere where the stony fetters of Fate couldn’t chain her down. Slowly, the boy got up from the ground to enter the town. Inside a place corrupted by greed, he wished that he too could dance in a world painted by starlight.

Chapter 1. Aadi

Wake up. There’s a storm brewing, said the dream-voice.

Another thunderstorm had eclipsed North Carolina in a whirl of rumbling clouds, roaring winds, and hissing downpours. Gales rattled the windows of every house from the shore to the mountains, and the thunder’s deep growls dulled the sound of alarm clocks of early morning risers.

Nuisances — that’s all thunderstorms are. Aadi knew that very well.

She could imagine the limbs of trees as they screeched and groaned, sent into a floundering limbo from the wind, outside the mansion. Lightning flashed rapidly. Her eyes darted from the shadows on the wall to the name written above her head: AADI. Ah-Dee. She both hated it and loved it. Name was a part of identity, but it was also part of the formula that made life work. After being bullied for it in elementary school, because everyone thought it was cute to equate the dee with dysfunctional or the grade D. Now, she owned that name—partially because it was the first thing she’d heard when coming back from the dead.

Aadi stretched her arms above her head then rolled out of bed. It was time to get started with her morning. The first step was recording the details of her dream that she could remember. One day, she hoped to write down the details of every dream she was ever going to have. It was a liberating thought to think there was enough time to do that. Maybe, she could use that as inspiration for choreography.

She picked up her dream journal from the top of her desk, jotted down a few words about the diamond-flecked sky, the blades of grass, and the dance steps she had performed. Then, she closed the book, glanced to the clock, and sighed.

Aadi padded over to the bathroom, picking up the hairbrush from the floor along the way. Though the Devereux Estate had been constructed in 1784, the interior had been remodeled in the early 1990s, shortly before she was born to fit each bedroom with its own bathroom and shower. It was convenient for everyone, but it was also kind of lonely. Aadi always wondered what it was like to live in a small apartment, bumping elbows into her sibling while trying to brush her teeth or fighting over who could use the toilet first.

Stick to the routine, Aadi, her brain reminded her.

Aadi licked the tip of her finger to smooth out strands of hair that weren’t laying right from static. Once the knots in her curly hair was tamed, she leaned towards the mirror to check her skin. A zit on her chin made her eyes narrow. That hadn’t been there yesterday. She thought about stabbing it with a fingernail then remembered getting chided by her mother a few days ago for doing so. Apparently, the bacteria under fingernails would only make it worse.

I’ll just cover it up and pray it’ll go away. Just like every other problem.

Lightning brightened her bedroom, casting the room in the same glow as the dreamworld for a moment. Aadi shook her head to clear the thought of that sanctuary from her mind then continued on with the morning routine. Leaving the bathroom, Aadi stopped in front of her wardrobe. She sucked in a breath then retrieved pieces of her school uniform hastily. Aside from the off-white pleated skirts and maroon blazers with an ugly, orange patch, she loathed the V-neck vests. Made from an itchy cotton-blend, it served as another component of daily torture that stripped every student of the preparatory school of their identity.

Aadi pulled down the black blouse as it refused to lay properly. The color of the undershirt was about as much elasticity as Michael Saint Preparatory allowed. Of course, some of the more outrageous colors like orange, lime, magenta, and electric blue were banned. Thus, Aadi stuck to black, gray, and lavender camis and leotards, since she could use those for after school dance practice as well.

Naturally, this benefited routine too. Aadi agreed that most of the time a schedule helped her operate better and kept her head lucid; but she continued to long for what she couldn’t have. Freedom. A sense of self. Even at 18 years old, she was already so tired.

As the lightning blinked again, shadows of the trees were splashed across the dimly lit walls and Berber carpet. Casting a brief glance at herself in the bedroom mirror, she frowned. The excitement of the thunderstorm was failing her. Driving through the rain to get to school wasn’t going to be fun.

Slipping on the horribly sized school shoes, Aadi exited the bedroom. The hallway was eerie—all thanks to the lack of curtains to keep out the impossibly close bolts of lightning and flailing tree branches. Shadows of the raindrops rolling down the glass showed on the floor, too, reminding her of running mascara on a tear-stained face. Cursing under her breath, Aadi stopped to look outside. Though the clouds were beginning to recede, the driveway was spotted with puddles and downed branches.

She saw ripples in the puddles as the wind blew, and her imagination brought her back to a time when jumping in those pools was the very essence of joy. Her kid-self would then turn her attention to the dark green leaves of the towering oaks huddled in drifts around the old horse stables for a dive into their musty secrets. But as she got older, she started to fear what those trees and shrubs endured. Perpetually rooted to one place, unable to leave—these things must have made it hell to be a plant.

Sighing heavily, Aadi turned away from the window and continued downstairs. Halfway down the winding flight of stairs, she inhaled the secret of syrups, batters, and butters that made her salivate. The visions of bacon, eggs and buttered toast frolicked through the air, wreaking havoc on her dormant appetite. Suddenly aware of the emptiness in her stomach, Aadi picked up the pace. Turning right at the bottom of the stairs, she crossed through the cavernous main lobby, where old suits of armor and fake flower displays lined the pathway, to enter one of the many dining halls, which was now used as her mother’s study. In the past, the North Carolinian plantation once put out enough tobacco and cotton to keep the Devereux family wealthy for centuries later. Aadi sneered at the portrait on the wall by the front door. Staring back at her was her infinitely great-grandfather with bronze eyes.

Everyone on the Devereux side of the family inherited those strange irises.

She once said that it was because everyone in the family only cared about money, and so those eyes started to look like newly minted pennies—but that had infuriated her parents. Still, if she remembered correctly, they also soon started to donate some of their profits to charities and helped restore some artifacts from colonial life to museums. Aadi, however, didn’t think it was enough.

Moving on, Aadi headed for family kitchen. Past the white door was another extravagant room with a cathedral ceiling and intricate chandelier. Her face refracted on the surface of the beads, and her mind used that as fuel for another daydream. Aadi saw a wonderful sky, flecked with gemstone stars.

It was the irritated voices coming from behind the kitchen’s metal door that yanked her from the vision. The exchange seemed to be between two of the estate’s cooks. Listening mutely to the heated conversation about where the homemade jelly was for the French toast, Aadi felt her skin crawl. It was about something her brother had complained about the other day. She found herself not blaming the cooks for the itching sensation running across her skin, but her family, who thought they deserved all their demands met. The cooks were tired of it—and she understood why. The routine, the menu, the schedule. All of it was exhausting and enraging. One slight aberration and everyone lost their minds.

Realizing that she had froze by the entrance way, Aadi swallowed the odd fuzziness in her throat. On the opposite end of the long table were her parents, their heads together, concealed behind a newspaper that was dated November 2012. As usual, they were discussing the insignificant peaks and falls of the stocks with verve. A point difference in their investments could either make or break their entire day; and it influenced their dialogue too. Taking a seat, Aadi rested her head in an upturned palm, awaiting the arrival of her daily superfood juice. The kitchen doors flew open — right on cue — and revealed a flustered Richard carrying out a tray with two juices and two coffees. He vanished quickly, shaking with the desire to swear uncontrollably. Aadi meekly sipped at her juice.

Oh, the drinks are out already? asked a small, male voice.

Looking to her younger brother, Lucas, as he walked by, Aadi smiled. His stature was moderately tall and thin for a fourteen year old. Sometimes, he still sounded prepubescent with that cracked voice of his. A mop of chocolate brown hair was parted to the side, and his round face was set with wide, bronze eyes and a tiny nose. They looked nothing alike, save for those irises.

Smelling the beverage with an expression of bother on his face, Luke whined, What is this stuff?

It’s that wheatgrass blend Mom insisted on making us drink, Aadi responded.

Lucas took an experimental sip, and his face twisted up reflexively. Great. Liquid boogers, he muttered to himself.

Clapping a hand over her mouth to control the volume of her laughter, Aadi looked to the left. The four cooks exited the kitchen to dish out scrambled eggs and bacon. A basket of sliced bread and biscuits went down in front of Lucas. He dove in for the cornbread immediately. It was an addiction of his. Aadi, however, looked at the meal with disdain. It was too much for the four of them to consume.

Finally aware of breakfast, her parents dismissed their financial talk to eat. The newspaper folded up in a flash then was tossed to an open chair.

First to make a move was Nancy Devereux-Mills, a short, average looking woman. Dark blonde hair was tied into a neat, if not too-tight bun, and her narrow hazel eyes encapsulated her businesslike personality. Her hands, though, were so flawless they seemed unreal. Marble skin and slender fingers with perfectly French manicured nails. The amount of attention those fingers received from her mother was nothing short of disturbing.

Then there was her father, William, who held true to the inherited Devereux features: brown hair and bronze eyes. The fair complexion of his face was, without a doubt, European. Yet, despite appearances, he was an extroverted, gregarious man whose tongue was his greatest weapon. Depending on the opponent, William was either the glib and enchanting CEO that could persuade you to trade your firstborn without a second thought or he was a sibilant snake, weaving vitriol that worked through the bloodstream and turned your bones to mush.

After polishing off a few waffles and washing it down with the wheatgrass juice, Aadi tapped Luke on the shoulder. I’m going to leave early. You coming?

Her brother tried to speak over a biscuit wadded up in his mouth, but the most that came out was a moan and crumbs. The sound made both Nancy and William glance up from their coffee with repulsed expressions.

Please don’t choke, she pleaded to Lucas as he managed to swallow the biscuit. I don’t want to be alone with them.

That makes both of us, her brother admitted.

The two of them tidied up their spots as well as they could then pushed their chairs in. From there, Aadi once again returned upstairs to brush her teeth, grab her backpack, and then returned to the ground floor to get the keys to her car. She stopped by the big window at the lobby where a rack of keys hung beside the front door. While there, she had to remind herself that there were two days left until the weekend. With a dance event coming up on Saturday, it was safe to say that she wasn’t as focused on arithmetic and essays as she was nailing a fouette turn. Heading for the garage, Aadi heard Lucas jogging along after her, huffing and puffing as he fought with a devastating load of textbooks.

How many books do you have to bring with you today? she asked.

It’s all the library books I borrowed, Luke said with a smile and roll of the shoulders.

Fighting the urge to pat him on the head, Aadi simply acknowledged her brother’s deed by saying, Nice.

Their shoes clacked against the cold concrete. Moths fluttered to and from the light bulbs, pinging off then coming back for more punishment. Aadi looked up to their meaningless flight as a wisp of steam whorled upwards from her mouth. Beside her, Lucas ran his hands over the hoods to the exotic import that William collected. Whatever was drool-worthy about the leather seats and platinum-coated radio knobs of the sports cars was beyond her. Aadi was happy to have a car, especially when so many people around the city and state didn’t. The two of them tossed their things into the back then took their seats. Aadi listened to the purrs of the engine get quieter before putting the vehicle into Drive. With a push of a button on an onboard remote, the second garage door opened slowly. Chains and ropes clinked and clanked as the rattling panel slid up and over them.

Aadi pulled out carefully. A light rain pinged off the rooftop. Drops falling from the leaves splattered onto the windshield. She flicked on the windshield wipers, watching them push a leaf back and forth several times.

She placed her hand on the radio and glanced to her brother. Any preference?

Uh, whatever. As long as I can concentrate on my homework.

There’s a reason it’s called homework, you know. Shouldn’t that be done already?

He glared at her for a second then went back to writing something down. I can’t focus at home.

She understand that sentiment. Sighing, Aadi gave the on button a push then waited for the screen to flash a welcome sign. After an adjustment of the radio and volume, the tunes pulsing through the speakers sounded perfect. She stated bobbing her head to the beat as the car traveled up the straight driveway to the road. Quickly, she looked down to the math problem he was stuck on.

Divide both sides by two, she said, and then factor them.

Luke tried out the method in his head and seemed appeased. The sound of scrawling occasionally accented the instrumental sections of the music, but Aadi didn’t mind. Knowing that her brother used the ride to school to focus on math made her feel helpful, in some way. It was one of the few moments where she could be the responsible big sister.

Soon, they were moving past the colonial buildings of the historic district and into downtown. Cars lined the roads, people window-shopped, and businessmen could be seen with briefcase and coffee cup in hand. A public school bus crossed the next intersection, full of shouting middle school kids. Aadi raised a brow as a textbook was tossed out an opened window to land on the sidewalk. Someone obviously didn’t think highly of education.

Aren’t you glad we go to an elite school? she asked her brother.

Sometimes. Luke didn’t even look up and continued on with homework, more focused on solving algebraic expressions than conversing.

Again, she could relate to what he was saying, though. Sometimes attending a private school for the wealthy had its perks. The education was at the top of the national scoreboards. Classes were small. Since the parents paid a hefty tuition, the danger of running out of funding for basic items like textbooks and chalk was slim. But there was a lack of community. Wealthy families often had poor relationships with one another, because their parents often had business dealings with one another. The other thing was the high level of expectation for achievements. Adequate marks in a public school were considered failing at Michael Saint Preparatory.

Green light. Aadi drove onward. Wind blew the fields of saturated wheat, and the gray clouds seethed like an angry ocean. But on the opposite side, the world was nothing but sunshine and warmth. Aadi watched the primordial pines that grew around the school go from looming in the distance to shading the pavement above them. Putting on her blinker, she turned right onto a cobblestone drive. Paired with the ancient conifers was a privacy fence that measured several feet tall made of thick wood. Michael Saint Preparatory High School was impossible to see from the street.

An aged statue of a Greek goddess observed the passing vehicles. Ivy grew around her eroded but outstretched hands, and there was dirt staining her stony face. The statue had stood there since the late eighteenth century, when the original structure had been built. The intention had been a religious church and school, but due to the owner’s sudden death in 1793, assembly halted. Then in the late 1850s, an estate owner sought to finish the building and use it for his homestead, but the outbreak of the Civil War in 1861, this restoration effort was also put on hold. The new owner perished as well. That was when the Saint family, an affluent group of mixed ethnicity that owned several large yeoman properties in North Carolina since the late 1700s, decided to try their luck with the institution.

The progressive history of the school was one of the few things Aadi liked. The uniforms, however, should be burned. Just thinking of that made the collar of her shirt itch, and she tugged at it. Turning left, Aadi prepared to drop Luke off at the north building, where the intermediate school was located. She noticed how her brother eyed the statues at the front of the school with a grimness that she’d once had, and it made her worried. Being that he was taller, lankier, and at the older end of the soon-to-be graduating 8th grade class, it put him in an awkward place.

Take care, Luke, she said as he pushed open the door.

I will. Though he wore a wan smile, it didn’t reach his eyes.

Waving goodbye, Aadi drove down the back of the buildings to the upperclassmen parking lot. A plethora of expensive cars and SUVs were lined up, row after row, looking more like an international car show than a high school. For those who didn’t have licenses yet, limousines could be scheduled for home pick-up. Aadi weaved between a Mercedes Benz and a Volvo then shifted her car into park with a groan. She rested her head carefully against the steering wheel, not wanting to set off the horn and frighten herself.

It’s happened more than once.

Though she didn’t want to be at the school, Aadi steeled herself then reach around to grab her bag from the back. As she got out from the vehicle, slamming the door closed, she suddenly felt a tug. Her skirt was caught. A few guys gathered around a Cadillac observed her struggle to get it free with ripping or wrinkling it, but their interest in the scene seemed unenthusiastic. Freed from the door, Aadi started for the front doors of the building. Wisps of hair blew across her face annoyingly.

Hooking strands of unruly hair behind her ears, she walked up the steps to the vestibule of the senior building. Then, there she was—standing before the extravagance that was Michael Saint Preparatory High School, also known as MSPHS to the students. Aadi lingered on the stairs as she took in a breath of crisp autumn air. The façade of the building was red brick with a concrete-colored trim on the windows and roof. Greek-influenced columns were built into the edifice with the bodies of unknown men halfway finished. Over the years, their faces had faded and left behind a low relief of a head, hands and feet. A yellow-green lawn stretched out before the entrances of the schools, fixed up prettily with picnic tables for lounging and studying.

Aadi opened the door, entering a nearly deserted hallway. The interior reminded her of a monastery with high-vaulted ceilings and arches. Several stained glass skylights illuminated the main thoroughfare with rainbow rays. The brick walls were covered in dark blue, and the columns were pure white. Red doors to the classrooms were open until the first bell rang. Aadi listened to her shoes clip-clop against the black tile on the floor while heading to her locker. Every time she heard the noise, she wanted to start tap dancing—but that was neither her favorite genre nor her forte.

The MSPHS classrooms deviated from simplicity with their high-tech equipment fit for world-class research centers and intelligence agencies. In the end, the school did its job of processing individuals today and turning them into the leaders of the world tomorrow. Yeah, she couldn’t say that with a straight face either.

That was when Aadi saw a group of girls exit the bathroom after reapplying their makeup. She compared her own appearance to them and told herself that in a few years the designer jewelry studding their fingers and ears wouldn’t matter, because they would find themselves doing the same thing as everyone else: working a salaried job, raising a family, or living with their parents until they got married. Such a boring outcome, befitting of such a boring school.

She wanted something more. Though she couldn’t put her finger on it, Aadi knew she wasn’t meant for this kind of life.

A group of male jocks clogged the middle of the corridor and yelled battle chants that resonated throughout the school. The minor feat had people throwing their fists into the air, ready to fight against their nemesis school from South Carolina. Aadi gave one of the cheerleaders a lighthearted wave. With that, it was as if a mask descended over her face, and she became the gregarious girl most people assumed she was. Of course, it wasn’t always such smooth sailing for Aadi when navigating the tides of cliques and popularity contests.

About two years ago, a fair share of gossip flew around MSPHS about her troubled life. The pain of depression and suicidal thoughts was amplified by the coldness of her peers. No one cared that she was suffering. Despite the worsening bullying and deepening scars she bore, Aadi kept going to school. She wanted to prove that there was something left in her that wanted to live on. She’d just misplaced it for a while. Stopping by her locker, Aadi set down her book bag. A combination went into the keypad. With a click, the door swung open.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder, but Aadi didn’t jump. Only one person ever got her attention like that. Hand signs immediately met her gaze as her best friend, Karen O’Shea, started communicating a lengthy message in ASL. For every girl there was in Michael Saint Preparatory, Aadi remained steadfast about Karen being the prettiest. Straight fiery hair and green eyes stood out on Karen’s lightly freckled face. The appearance reminded Aadi of an elf. Beside Karen, she felt like a wallflower.

Picking up on what was being communicated, Aadi signed in ASL, Can you repeat that? I only caught the middle of your sentence.

Karen laughed in silence before replying, I was trying to finish off where we left off on the text messages, before your parents interrupted you.

Oh yeah. Continue.

The redhead took a deep breath, prepping to use her hands quickly. Do you remember how I was trying to get the lead dancing role for the school play?

Raising her eyebrows a tad didn’t help cover up that Aadi couldn’t recall it. The musical had always been one of Karen’s goals, but she’d forgotten why. A moment went by as Aadi tried to gather worldly memories and not dream ones.

Yes, I remember, she finally signed.

No, you don’t. Don’t lie to me, please. Karen dropped her green gaze for a minute as she schooled her face into giddiness. But it doesn’t matter, because I went onto that stage and danced my best. I got the part! Hands shook with glee and reiterated, I got the part!

Aadi signed an energetic congratulations, embraced her best friend, and then jumped up and down in a circle with her. The act earned them a few curious glimpses, but they didn’t care. Though the two of them attended different dance studios, Aadi supported Karen’s dream of becoming a deaf professional dancer. This was one big step along the way.

Somewhere along the line the bell must’ve rang because they were two minutes late to Trigonometry. Aadi sat down in her desk—third row, fifth chair—and threw her backpack onto the floor. The day might have just begun, but the instant she looked to the whiteboard, she felt fatigued and had to strain her eyes to see the board. Propping herself up on the thick textbook, Aadi maintained a steady note-taking pace on another series of equations that would supposedly aid her later in life. Except, she highly doubted Trigonometry would be her go-to problem solving method for things like taxes and budgeting. Yawning, Aadi looked around the room, finding people gossiping about the latest runway fashion in the back near the doorway.

There were announcements and flyers hanging on the back wall. On the other end, tests and quizzes from students who had actually passed the extremely hard assessments were taped along the top. Aadi spotted her row of consecutive A’s. Glancing back to her notes and then the whiteboard, she noticed that Mr. Bernard, the teacher, had gone off on another tangent. So, she closed her eyes for what felt like a brief moment.

To her amazement, the bell rang. Karen met her at the door, saying that she’d been thinking about death by pencil. They walked down to the science lab wing of the building, where the arches were painted black and the bricks white. Windows showed classes with long laboratory tables and full chemistry sets. The nauseating scent of green gas from an Advanced Chemistry class made Aadi gag. Karen patted her lightly on the back before going into Biology while Aadi found herself stepping into the realm of Physics.

Now, here was a useful class.

The tables were arranged into four rows, two rolling stools at each table. Posters of ridiculous mnemonics hung around the room. The teacher, an ex-college professor, had just downed her fifth cup of coffee and was bouncing up and down while muttering