S.H.I.E.L.D Academy

??? / Espen O'Donnelley's POV • High School

???'s POV

My grandmother always said that redheads were capable of great things. As you can imagine, most of the members of my family are topped with ginger hair, and have been for generations. I'm the exception: a brunette whose hair glows red in the sunlight, so I've been told I somewhat uphold the family "heirloom." I never put much stock into this superstitious favoritism of redheads, but the sheen of my hair glowing unmistakably red under the scrutiny of the sun had pretty much proved me wrong throughout my life. Many situations have evidenced Grandmum's theories, and I can't run from the fact that I'm . . different. But my brother thinks he can.

***

Espen's POV

I sit in homeroom, Ms. Baker's room. But she told me to call her Trin. Short for Trinity, I guess. Dunno what else it could be short for.

Everyone here is seated, and no one's really noticed that I'm here. Which is interesting, considering two things: One, I'm new. And two, my hair is a ridiculously shocking pink. But that's the way I like it. I dye it all the time, all sorts of hues. Pink is sort of my usual. It's funny, I actually can't remember what colour hair I was born with; it's been so long since it's been a natural shade. I run a hand through it, passively listening to what Trin is saying.

"--and I'd like to introduce a new student--Espen. Espen?" And then I'm all ears. I glance around the room. I'm not exactly nervous, but I'm not too comfortable either.

"Hey," I stand up and say, the typical awkward "newbie" smile pulling at my lips.

Everyone waves, smiles or says a polite "hello" and I'm free to sit back down.

We're told--again--about upcoming due dates for previous assignments, we're delegated our study hours by groups, and we're dismissed to our next class. I scribble my timeline for study hall and check out my schedule. Next is Mr. Tomlinson's International History class. I shove the schedule back in my pocket and grab my camo knapsack.

Walking down the halls, I see a few people I saw in homeroom heading the same way I am. The pale and wide-eyed, dark haired beauty; the tall guy with the cocky smile and the hazel eyes; the brown-eyed, intimidatingly elegant blondie lass; and a grumpy looking lass with bright green eyes and a straight nose.

"Hi." The hesitant voice reaches me over my shoulder. I turn around to see a girl a few yards away at a sticker-bedecked locker. She grabs a few papers from within, slams the door shut, then clicks the padlock back on. She smiles at me and jogs to where I stand.

"Hi," I say, wondering what to expect.

"You're new." She cocks her head as she states the obvious, as if she were informing me of something I needed to know. Without letting me respond, she plows on ahead. "I'm Annette Rogers. Some people call me Netta, or Annie. I don't really know what it means, but some people call me Peanut Gallery."

I just bet they do, I think to myself, cocking an eyebrow.

"I just started freshman year," she says happily. "Are you a freshman? You look like a freshman. Freshmen are nice. Seniors aren't very nice to me. But I think that's just the way it is between seniors and freshmen, even though it doesn't really make sense."

"I'm a sophomore, actually," I interject into the conversation. I glance at my phone, see the time and try to politely break this off, whatever this is. "It was nice meeting you, but I've really gotta get to class now."

"What's your next class?" She completely glosses over my attempt at ending the conversation.

I sigh inwardly. "International History."

Her level of perkiness rises impossibly higher, having her practically bouncing on her toes. "Tomlinson's?" She asks excitedly.

"Yes . .?"

"That's my next class!"

Wonderful.

***