Mr Fletcher’s thirteen students scuffled close to him in little steps into the main entrance hallway. Jessa was disappointed to see Cecily Graves in her tutor group.

“Over here we have Mrs Pacey, she’s the school administrator and runs the reception. If you have any scheduling, technological, or attendance issues, she’s the one to speak to.”

Mrs Pacey waved at the students then quickly turned back to her devices. Her fingers ran swiftly and delicately between the glassy computer surfaces and the silvery matte trackpad on the desk in front of her.

Mr Fletcher walked the group down the main hallway and let them poke their heads into the library. Like most of the first-years, Jessa had toured Winsbury before applying, but the facilities seemed even more real and exciting now she was there as a real student. The library was so contemporary compared to the childish one at Jessa’s middle school, which had cartoon animals painted on the walls and ragged, fading books on rickety shelves. Especially for such a small school, the Winsbury library was expansive and full of light streaming in through a wall of windows at the far end that looked out into the school gardens.

Mr Fletcher pointed down the hallway to the left of the library, explaining that this was the way to the gymnasium (a fact that Jessa dismissed somewhat, as she planned to spend as little time as possible in the gymnasium.)

The tour continued up the staircase, to the first floor. The stairway opened to a spacious landing area with a few clusters of squishy-looking beanbag chairs in front of big arched windows.

In the corner of the open space was a wall of ultramodern lockers, each with a small screen next to the handle notch. Every locker had a small light display on the screen, some showing yellow and some green.

“Everyone choose a locker with a green light,” Mr Fletcher instructed, and the thirteen students each stood before the locker of their choice. Jessa, Maggie and Flynn all crouched to the lower, less popular row so they could secure neighbouring lockers.

“Tap the screen once until the light flashes, then hold your index finger on the middle of the screen until it stops flashing. This will be your locker, and only you can open it.”

Each of the lockers flashed with recognition, welcoming their new keepers. Welcome, Baxter, J., Welcome, Turner, M., Welcome, Howard, F.

Mr Fletcher led them to the end of the East Wing corridor, to his personal classroom, their tutor group home for the next four years. The tables each had space for just two students, and Jessa and Maggie immediately chose a table together at the front of the class.

Flynn paused and looked around the room. He was the only one left without a seating partner.

“Here, Flynn, take this one,” Jessa moved across to the next table.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah, definitely. I’m left-handed anyway, so it’s better for me if I sit on this side.”

“Thanks,” he slid into the seat Jessa had vacated.

Flynn copied Maggie and took out a pencil-case and notebook from his bag. The pencil-case was a worn brown leather that reminded Jessa of something her grandfather might have. In fact, many things about Flynn reminded her of someone a lot older; the large over-ear headphones that he clipped to his backpack, his well-worn trainers that looked like they might have been purchased in a supermarket.

Everything about Flynn was a little peculiar.

His dishevelled brown hair was mousy and unstylish by most teenagers’ standards, and with a closer look at his yellow and blue striped polo shirt, Jessa noticed it was a little bobbly and dull around the collar. While everyone else in the class, herself included, was dressed up in the brand-spanking-new, Flynn seemed a little faded among the technicolour.

Maggie and Flynn were both a little odd, Jessa thought, but one thing was certain, and Flynn’s words came back into her mind. Her kind of people.

“Sorry the room is so bare right now,” Mr Fletcher told the class. “I’m new here myself.”

His dark blond hair looked crunchy with gel, and he was much more stylish than any of the other teachers. Plenty of the girls in the class were already swooning.

He handed out lesson schedules and talked through all the day’s announcements, including details of extracurricular clubs and societies. Maggie urgently scribbled down notes, though Jessa couldn’t tell what she could possibly be making notes about.

Mr Fletcher swiped through pages on his netpad, his eyes flitting back and forth over the screen, scanning for any other pertinent information.

“So I think that’s everything I have to tell you. Does anyone have any questions for me?”

“Yeah,” a tanned boy drawled. “Are you a parapsych?”

“Yes,” said Mr Fletcher, “I’m a telekin. But perhaps more importantly, I consider my main attribute to be that I’m a massive Parapsych History nerd. Which means, aside from seeing you every morning for attendance and our PSE sessions on Mondays, you’ll come to me for your weekly Parapsych History lessons, too. And further down the line, maybe we’ll see each other more often if you decide to continue with me at P-Level!”

No response.

“No history buffs, eh?”

Apparently, even Maggie couldn’t admit to being a history buff.

“Fine. Any other questions?”

“How old are you?” asked a girl from the back of the room.

“I don’t think that’s releva—”

“Are you single?” Cecily Graves interrupted him.

“That’s definitely not relevant,” he said quickly and turned around before the students noticed the blush in his cheeks.

Jessa was grateful when the bell rang for lunch. Despite her morning breakfast feast, she was starting to feel a grumble in her stomach.

By the time Jessa, Maggie, and Flynn arrived, the cafeteria was already quite full and loud with the hubbub of post-holiday catch-up, the clinking of cutlery on plates, and hands rustling in crisp packets.

The three of them took their place in the queue and surveyed the food options that shone under the yellow heat lamps.

“What can I get for you lovely young ladies?” said a blithe older woman behind the counter.

“Chicken pie and mash, please,” said Jessa.

“Veggie pie and mash, please,” added Maggie.

“And for you, kiddo?” the server looked over at Flynn.

His eyes searched from tray to tray and label to label. “Umm, nothing for me,” he said, “I don’t really fancy anything. I’ll go and find us a table.”

“Are you sure?” Jessa asked, but he was already walking away toward the cashier, where he quickly picked up just an apple and a bag of cheesy crackers.

“Excuse me,” Jessa turned back to the lady behind the counter, “can I have a cheese and ham roll, too?”

“Looks like you’ve built up quite an appetite today!” she responded cheerfully, placing a roll on a plate for Jessa.

Jessa stabbed open the pastry lid of her pie to let the steam out. She noticed Flynn looking over at her plate.

“Is that going to be enough food for you, Flynn?” Maggie asked.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” he said loudly. “I’m not overly hungry.”

He took another bite of his apple and chewed slowly.

“Well, if you change your mind,” said Jessa, “I don’t think I’ll manage this sandwich.”

“Oh,” he hesitated. “Really?”

“Yeah. It looked really good, with this big thick cheddar slice in, and the roll looked nice and soft, but I had eyes bigger than my belly.” She scooted the plate over towards him. “Here, why don’t you take it? If you want it, I mean. I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

“Yeah. Okay,” he said. “If you really don’t want it.”

Jessa and Maggie shared a subtle smile.

But it wasn’t subtle enough. Flynn looked mortified.

Without a word, he took a bite, then pulled a textbook from his bag and put his head forward to read.