H A U N T E D

f i v e

f i v e

I enter my first class, English Literature, just as the tardy bell rings. The class is still a bit restless, talking amongst themselves and giggling. I recognize a few onlookers standing at the edge of the classroom, louring slightly or laughing at what my new classmates have to say.

Some of my classmates glance my way, keeping their eyes on me, while some nudge their friends and try to subtly point in my direction. Soon, the class quiets down as I awkwardly make my way to an empty seat at the side of the room, in the second last row. I place my books and pencil case down, opening my textbook to the page scribbled on the board, as well as my notebook. Usually, I have the utmost self-confidence that my mother taught me to carry like a sword, double-edged and dangling over trespassers' heads every time they disrespect me, but that Allison-girl's reaction from this morning caught me a bit off-guard. Speaking of, she's seated diagonally from me, whispering softly to her friends while glancing at me every now and again. Once she notices me giving her a scowl, she drops her eyes to the desk and her shoulders sag with guilt and embarrassment.

I force myself to compose myself, to take deep breaths and think of my new garden and honeybees, of heart-shaped ponds and lavender. Soon, a dreamy smile replaces my frown and I scribble flowers into the corner of my page, careful to do it lightly, so it can be easily erased later.

"Hey."

I look up to see a boy with healing skin problems stand in front of my desk, his hands holding his leather-man jacket that he must carry around in case he gets cold. His long hair is styled into dreadlocks, tied into a low-hanging ponytail. His eyes are open and honey-brown, brimming over with interest. I note that the boy is rather cute, in a jock-y kind of way.

"Hello", I greet him back politely, staring at him through my eyelashes. He blinks a few times, swallowing a bit loudly, before giving me a half-grin.

"You must be Ophelia, right? Like the song?"

I can't help but be amused by the comparison. Of course, the song came out years after my birth, but everyone keeps assuming my mother must've named me after it. While it's a beautiful ballad to a star-crossed lover, I could never be the protagonist in it. I'm not the type of person people fall in love with, much less write songs about.

"Yes", I only say and tilt my head slightly to take in the boy. From the stares I can feel on us, I know he must be popular amongst his peers. Perhaps this might even be a dare to impress them. I might as well indulge it.

The boy nods and looks away nervously, questioning something on his mind, before turning his gaze back to me.

"Are you a witch?"

I take a deep breath, giving the boy an analyzing once-over before giving him a small smile that does  not mean much to me, turning my gaze back to my doodles. I hope he understands the meaning behind my silence, that I don't want to talk. My pencil makes loops with flowers and scribbles, forming an eye without me realizing it.

"Is your mother Jenna Lee? The girl who hexed-"

"Sorry I'm late, guys!", the boy is interrupted by a flailing teacher. The boy gives me a lasting glance, with a curious glint in his eyes that sends a chill down my shoulder-blades. The teacher scribbles his name on the board and turns to face us with a smile.

"Your teacher isn't here today, so I'll be subbing for the day."

The substitute's eyes travel to mine, raising his one eyebrow in question, but he doesn't bring attention to me. Instead, he continues with the assignment our teacher gave, an analytical essay of the first three chapters of the thriller - Jekyll and Hyde.

I make note to go check the book out at the town's library this afternoon, and to make prints of it at home. Finn luckily invested in a printer for his own personal use, but said I can use it any time this morning at breakfast.

After the class is over, I check my schedule next and see I have Algebra next. I realize I never had a home room period, but notice that the period is at the end of the day. It's probably to check that no one skips class during the day. I follow the directions of the school's map and arrive at my classroom in no time. I go to the teacher, a plump elderly lady with graying dark hair, and hand her my slip that states my name and my Algebra average from my junior year.

"Oh, Miss Ophelia Lee", she reads my name over the rim of her glasses. More students pile into the classroom as she checks my grade. I nervously glance at the students, who are either rowdily entering the class, deep male voices laughing, or some glance my way before looking over at their fiends, snickering and whispering to their friends, who chuckle at whatever their friends have to say. I lift my hand up to my mouth, absent-mindedly chewing at the hardened skin around my thumb.

"You graduated your sophomore year with a B, I see?", she hums in thought, glancing at me over the rim of her glasses. I give a sheepish smile, feeling heat rush up my neck. The teacher returns the smile with one of her own, before turning around and unlocking a storage closet behind her. She takes out an old textbook and hands it over to me.

"Let's push for an A minus this year, Miss Lee? Your mother could do it, I'm sure you'll be able too", she gives me the faintest upturn of the corner of her lips, and assigns me my seat in the middle back-row of the class. I slowly ascend to my chair, registering that the teacher spoke of my mother. Did she also give my mother Algebra all those years ago? My mother never spoke of her high school days, except the one time when she had too many glasses of cheap wine and her special plants. I shake my head at the memory, letting out a whimsical sigh. 

We're revising the homework the students had for the weekend, and I make note of how this teacher revises the 'sin' formula to her class. Using her hands and pacing around the room, making jokes while still remaining professional with her students, even making it easy to understand the formula, unlike any Algebra teacher I had. I check the textbook, where her name stands on the inside of the book's cover.

Mrs Tomes.

She didn't seem to mind my mother at all, nor less me. If anything, she seemed fond of her student from twenty years back. For a moment, I feel connected to this lady.

After an hour of Algebra, my brain feels fried from all the information that I received in the last hour. I still have an hour until lunch, something I'm not entirely sure if I'm excited for. I guess I'm just more excited for the French class I'll be in for the next hour. I am sure I am not the only one who exhales with relief when the bell rings, signalling the end of the class.

"I see you survived Tomes. It's always fun to see a newbie entering the class. Not much happens around here."

I look over to my side, to the owner of the voice. Too little, too late, do I realize my mistake. I'm pretty sure I just set off an alarm to every one of them. So much for trying to seem normal and unassuming. I force myself to look forward, to act as though I never heard the man.

A well-dressed man walks alongside me, his arms swinging slightly and his satisfied smirk barely contained. I turn my gaze back to the front, trying to act as if I never noticed his existence.

"Don't be coy now, Miss Lee", he chuckles. The mere sound of it is baleful, and it raises goosebumps along my skin. I quicken my pace, but the man seems to keep up.

"You're scared", he notes. I unfold the paper map in my hand, hoping that the spirit can't see my hand trembling slightly.

"I'll leave now. You're a great conversationalist", he drawls sarcastically. I turn my back on him to look up at the numbers above the class' entrances, hoping the man catches the hint.

Once I turn back, the man is gone. I stare up and down the hallway, hoping to see his retreating form, to tell me that it was not just my eyes playing tricks on me, but the man seems to have vanished into thin air. Instead, a teacher stares at me annoyed, gesturing for me to enter her classroom. She scolds at me in French, warning me about how I can't be late for my first day at a new school. I hastily walk to the woman, mumbling in broken French and apologising for being late.

My stomach twists in knots as I remember the man's knowing grin, and I hope I never have to deal with him again.