If ten people are staring at you — that's not necessarily a reason to panic.
If those ten include school directors, psychologists, a couple of police officers, and a woman in a gray suit who smells like government bureaucracy... you might be in trouble.
And if you're me... you're used to it.
In front of me — a long table. Oak. Heavy. Morally crushing.
Behind it — the committee. The new school principal. His deputy. A psychologist with the face of a kind owl. Someone from the education department. Two officers in uniform, looking as if they're here by accident — although clearly not. And two others I didn't know and already didn't want to.
I'm sitting on a creaky plastic chair in a teacher's lounge that feels more like a courtroom. Like I'm on trial. Without a lawyer. Though if I had one — he'd have fled by now.
– So what now, you're expelling me again?
I just... sit.
Hands trembling. You can't see it, of course — I've hidden them under the table. But I feel it.
– We don't even know exactly what happened, – says one of the teachers, nervously fiddling with a pen. – You were in the building. Twenty minutes later — a flash, a fire in the physics lab, an energy surge in the grid, shattered windows, and, excuse me, water in the sinks slowly rising. Can you explain that?
I open my mouth. Close it. Inhale.
– Maybe it was... a faulty kettle?
Nobody laughs. Not even me. Not even inside.
– Seriously, Aya. This is your third school. We're the fourth. Do you even realize how many... anomalies are tied to you?
– I'm not... I'm not doing it on purpose.
My voice is quieter than I'd like.
– I was just... there.
– You're always just there, – the vice-principal snaps. – When the furniture burns. When the mirror shows not a reflection, but... a second face. When during biology class, the teacher starts growing horns!
– I saw them too, – I blurt out. – I was scared. I didn't know...
– And you didn't say anything. Not then, not after.
– What was I supposed to say? That the mirror talked to me and called itself my father?! You'd have called the psych ward on the spot.
– Maybe we should have, – says one of the officers. His voice is calm, but hard. – Maybe you're a danger not only to yourself, but to others.
Danger.
As if I wanted this. As if I could control it.
But no one asks. No one tries to understand that I don't know what's happening to me. That I'm scared as hell. That sometimes I can't breathe when the light flickers for no reason, or when a door creaks — and I know I didn't touch it.
I look at them. At these adults who were supposed to protect me.
And I speak the only way I know how.
With sarcasm.
– Great. Go ahead, burn me at the stake. I hear I make a very aesthetic fire.
Pause. Silence. The psychologist scribbles something in her notebook.
I say nothing else.
– Your parents signed the transfer, – says the principal. – To Raven Academy.
– What?
– Private. Isolated. Special methods. You'll start at the end of the month.
– Do I have a choice?
– If you want, you can refuse. Then we'll proceed officially. Fire. Damage. Potential harm to staff.
My fingers dig into the edge of the chair.
– I'll go, – I say. Not because I want to. Because there's nowhere else. Because in this room, I'm a mistake, an unwanted glitch, and all they want is to be rid of me.
They think I'm a monster.
But I'm just a girl.
A girl who once woke up and realized something was wrong with her. And no one was going to explain why.
– You show signs of dissocial personality disorder, – the psychologist says evenly, not lifting her eyes from the papers. – Emotional detachment. Lack of empathy. Potential for destructive behavior. And, I quote, "difficulty adapting in traditional educational environments."
– Oh, let's just say I act like a witch and call it a day, – I sigh, staring at the chandelier. – Or does it bother you that I didn't politely set fire to the principal's office?
– One more comment like that and I'll file a report for unwillingness to cooperate, – the officer cuts in coldly. His brows knit so hard he looks like he's physically restraining himself from stuffing me into a trunk.
I shrug. That's it. Game over.
– We were left with no choice, – the principal says. – Raven Academy is all we can offer to prevent escalation. Or another incident. Or... fatalities. Given the previous schools.
– I haven't killed anyone, – I mutter.
– But someone could've died, – he replies. – And we don't want to wait until that happens.
Finally, the psychologist looks at me. Too gentle. Too polite. Too fake.
– You're tired too, aren't you, Aya? Tired of being scared. Of no one understanding what's happening. Of the... manifestations.
And I suddenly want to cry.
Not from fear. From exhaustion.
But I won't give them that. Not these people. Not today.
I force a smile. It comes out sickeningly bright.
– Yeah, I'm tired. Of unsolicited diagnoses. Of crooked stares. Of even my own reflection looking at me suspiciously. But you're right. Raven is perfect. Where else do they keep teens with a tendency to spontaneously combust?
No one laughs. Only the vice-principal covers her face like she's got a migraine.
– You may go. You're no longer required here.
I stand. Back straight. Head high. Inside, I'm pulsing like I'm about to faint — but I don't show it.
Never show it. To them. To anyone.
I open the door. The hallway hums for a moment in silence. Just regular students. Regular walls. Only I'm no longer part of this school.
I reach the exit. And I see my parents.
They stand close together. Mom's clenching her purse strap so hard her fingers are white. Dad looks straight at me. He's tired. He's worried. He's scared — not of me, for me.
I approach.
They rush to me like I've come back from war.
– Sweetie, are you okay? – Mom's already touching my cheeks, checking my eyes. – Were you burned? Are you... shaking? Are you sure you weren't burned?
– Mom, you know I don't burn. The world around me does.
– Don't joke like that! – Dad frowns. – They called us. Said without consent, they could file charges. Or... send you to a facility.
– Wow, – I say with a crooked smile. – So my choices were Hogwarts or Azkaban?
Mom doesn't laugh. Her eyes are wet.
– We... we just couldn't take the risk, Aya. Sorry. We signed everything. Raven Academy... they say they know how to deal with kids like you. With... cases like this.
– Mom, you know I'm not a "case", right? I'm a person.
– We know, – she whispers. – But they don't believe it. And I'm scared. Scared that one day... – She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. I get it.
Dad places a hand on my shoulder.
– You're strong. Smart. But sometimes... it seems like something inside you is stronger than you are. – He looks me in the eye. – Aya... just find someone who'll help you understand what that is.
I nod.
And for a second, a tiny, pitiful second — I lean my forehead against Mom's shoulder.
Then step back.
– Alright. School for the special. Maybe there I won't terrify toilets just by existing.
Mom lets out a teary chuckle.
– Don't joke.
– Oh, I haven't even started.
Behind me — the old school.
Ahead — something strange. A black building on the map. Raven Academy.
And I'm standing at the threshold.
– What do you mean "boarding"? – Aya froze, staring at the paper in Dad's hand.
– It means, – he said calmly, – that Raven Academy is a boarding school. Full-time residence.
– Nobody asked me?!
– They did. The officer. The vice-principal. The psychologist. You were just in a room where you were asked a lot of things, – he reminded her.
Aya jumped up. Grabbed her backpack from the couch and bolted to her room.
– No way. No freaking way! Live there? Where even is that?! – she threw the bag down, gripping her laptop.
It whirred. She typed furiously:
"Raven Academy. Private school. Address. Photos. Reviews."
The page loaded.
And revealed... something odd.
On screen — a site in soft gray tones. Fancy lettering: Aurum Corvis Academy. No mention of troubled teens. No hints at special needs. Just pictures of the campus: neat paths, green lawns, towers reaching into the sky, and suspiciously smiling teens in uniforms.
Aya frowned.
– What is this, a religious cult?
On screen — a girl in a skirt, a boy in a vest. They're laughing. The background slightly blurred. Too perfect. Like someone photoshopped reality.
– Oh look, Dad. Hell, but with ribbons, – she shouted into the hall. – They're putting me in a toaster. Just without the guarantee I won't catch fire.
Dad appeared. Standing in the doorway. Watching.
– Aya, you need to understand. This isn't school. It's the last option.
– Thanks. You sound just like the internet: explained everything, and made it worse.
– I'm serious. If you don't agree — they'll put you... – he stopped. – Somewhere worse.
Aya turned. Looked at him. Long. Calm gaze.
Then...
Her lips trembled.
She turned away. Fast. Sat on the floor.
– I... I can't, – she whispered. – I'm scared.
She hid her face in her knees.
– I don't know what's there. I don't know what's wrong with me. Everyone thinks I'm crazy, a demon, a monster... But if I'm alone — I really... can't handle it.
– Aya... – Dad stepped closer.
– I tried, Dad. At the last school. Not yelling, not panicking, not scaring people. But it all went wrong again.
She sobbed.
– And now you're sending me... somewhere unknown, and even you... can't visit. Not every weekend. Not in the evenings. Never. I'll be alone. Dad, Mom... I'm scared. I'm not as strong as you think.
He sat beside her. Gently. So as not to break her fragile cocoon.
Silent. Just placed a hand on her back.
Said nothing until she calmed down.
Then whispered:
– Being strong doesn't mean not being afraid. It means going, even when you are.
– But...
– We'll be in touch every day. Camera, calls, messages. If it's bad — we'll find a way, okay? Even if we have to break you out with a hang glider.
– A hang glider?
– Or a helicopter. If we can find one.
– Without a license?
– Yep. We'll make Mom pilot it.
– She'll scream.
– We both will.
Aya snorted, wiping tears with her sleeve.
– It'll be okay, Aya. This... maybe this isn't the end. Maybe it's the beginning. Just... don't give up, alright?
She nodded.
Slowly.
Still scared. Still angry. But no longer alone.
And meanwhile, the academy page refreshed.
Now a strange message appeared:
"Welcome, Aya Li. We've been waiting for you."
She froze.
– Did you see that?
Dad looked.
– No. There's nothing. Just photos.
She closed the laptop.
And for the first time all day, felt a shiver run down her spine.