A little disclaimer: this is a novel in a slightly altered version of our World after WW2. Themes of tackling homophobia, dealing with racism, poor mental-health & suicide ideation will be present in this novel and the other two planned novels for this ongoing series. You have been warned; please take care.

Sunday, September 1st, 1974

Bright orange rays of sunlight began to set over a bunch of first-year dorks and me. We were desperately attempting to keep up with our final-year student drummers, dressed in red, ahead of us. All the while, we were trying not to be shoved into the mulch by the second and third-year students behind us. I swear I heard a snively-sounding third-year student whisper plans to kick one of us unlucky bastards in the heel, but I couldn’t give any names, as I knew practically no one besides a few of the freshmen.

We, as a group, kept marching along like little troopers, carrying our bags of luggage like dorks with one hand, and waving our nation's flags with the other, all while keeping to the beat of the drums. The journey was already aching my legs, since we were forced to march up marshy terrain, but what made it more exhausting was wearing our stiff academy uniforms in the Welsh autumn cold. Talk about overkill with the discipline, feels like home away from home…

We had finally marched through the thick forest of oak trees and reached the centre of the small island off the coast of Wales. There stood the prison-like, intimidating, five-story building meant to be our academy for the next five years. My dislike of the idea of being couped up inside was painful enough, but in addition, the twitching feeling in my gut screamed: “They’re gonna find out about you within the first two minutes!” 

We were greeted by intimidating soldiers, dressed in camo-green, saluting us with deep frowns and closing our one way out of leaving here. How welcoming! The final-year students ahead of us split themselves into two, marching to the opposite ends of the courtyard, layered in greenery and dirt-covered grounds for training. 

There was this one older boy with albinism who looked plain miserable, and he kept staring at me with an intensity that I’ve never seen before. As silent retaliation for his annoying expression, I quickly stuck out my tongue at him, retracted my silly expression, and pretended nothing had happened. This dude may or may not attempt to shove me in a locker later today, but hell, it was totally worth seeing the boy’s confused face.

As the freshmen clumsily formed a line, one of my fellow Canadian first-year representatives… I think his name was Christopher Adams? He accidentally bumped into a moody boy from France.

“O-oh! Pardon me!” Christopher, a lanky, honey-blond hailing from the Province of Saskatchewan, quietly muttered as the pale-blond French kid set off a domino effect that tripped up the other first-years in the second row. I couldn’t stop myself from snickering at the dumb phenomenon as the rays of sunshine shone on my warmed face. 

“Basil, shut up. Don’t get us in trouble.” James Rioux, the other Canadian first-year student hailing from the Province of Quebec, irritably whispered beside me. I quickly went straight-faced, like I had seen a ghost and kept my head down. As cheeky as I wanted to be to ease my nerves, getting yelled at before the first day even started was a death sentence! Well, we were going to get a death sentence anyway, because our Head Master, a stuffy, old man dressed in shades of navy, just saw the whole thing and sneered at us. 

“Is this really what our young nations have to offer these days?!” Our crabby Head Master with a thick, Boston accent snapped his fingers and cued us to salute him. “Sir, Headmaster Giovanni, sir!” We all shouted in unison, our dusty black boots harshly stomping on cue.

“No! NO! NO!!! YOU ARE TO APOLOGIZE ON COMMAND!” He hollered and pitched his cup of coffee onto the dirt ground. “YOU LOT ARE SUPPOSED TO REPEAT: WE APOLOGIZE, HEAD MASTER GIOVANNI, SIR!”

“We apologize, Headmaster Giovanni, sir!” The arrays of teenagers screamed from the top of their lungs, myself included, as the north winds pressed against our faces.

“Listen up, you rotten, undisciplined children! Talented youngsters from across various nations would kill to be here, standing exactly where you are! Some of them have far better discipline than you, so don’t you tiny boys ever embarrass yourselves like that again! Unless you want to upset your teachers and be booted out of this prestigious academy!” 

Talk about inspiring. When I grow up to be an old fossil, I’d like to be just like him! Balding, bitter, and gray. As I zoned out the rest of our Head Master’s boring speech, I decided to observe some of my fellow students. 

In this supposed legendary academy, depending on your shade of uniform, you were divided into a “Block” and had an assigned schedule. I wore the dark navy-blue uniform with white trims, so I was a designated “Block A” student. We also had different classes from Block B and C students, whose schedules were different than ours, but with the same teachers.

I glanced over at other boys with terrible haircuts like mine, and some of them were pretty intimidating. James Rioux, whom I already met on the ferry ride to this Island, is one of those scary-looking youngbloods. He was taller than most freshmen, had chestnut brown hair, dark brown eyes, and was more built than the rest of us skinny 14-year-olds. Sure, his expression was hella bored during our yawn-inducing orientation, but this guy’s dark eyes screamed with vigour.

I caught the eye of one of the Mexican reps, and I have to say, he looked pretty handsome! Tanned skin, unusually soft-mauve eyes and dark, slick-back hair. Though if I get caught “acting queer” in public, I’m getting beaten up for sure. So I avoided eye contact with him for the rest of our lecture and found myself looking at a pair of identical twins from Italy. It was unusual to see a matching set, as I’ve only ever met one pair of twins in my entire life. One of the chocolate-haired twins seemed to notice my staring and glared at me with eyes that reminded me of an old friend from back home! 

That friend’s dead. 

But as I was saying, twin number two had a gaze in his eyes that screamed mysterious and potentially dangerous. So, essentially, Satan’s apprentice. Meanwhile, the other twin was clearly bored out of his mind and didn’t bother looking up at our Headmaster. I will definitely have to watch out for these sly-looking twins.

There was a depressed-looking pale-blond named Martin Pruvost hailing from France; he clearly wasn’t happy that Christopher bumped into him. Oh, and there was another tall blond named Klaudius Schmidt. He looked pretty darn serious. The other kids in my Block didn’t really stand out to catch my eye, so I stood still, saluted when Mr. Giovanni’s speech was over, and marched along with the other boys inside this expensive-looking academy. 

Holy hell, never have I been to such a bright and colourful building like this. For a second, I thought we were walking into Toronto’s famous AGO! Bright, marble floors, raven-black walls, warm lights across the ceilings, and hung paintings trimmed with gold. Not to mention, the place was extremely lively with an international flair. 

I even saw the Canadian and Argentinian flags next to each other in the main red hallway! Funny coincidence to see those two particular flags, considering I’m what the dudes call a “halfie”. 

That coincidence aside, James, Christopher, and I walked down to our future dorms, and I suddenly had to use the restroom. My fellow Canadians calmly expressed we’d catch up later, and they walked off down a red hallway. Meanwhile, I detoured to a quieter washroom at the back of the academy. This entire place was extremely impressive, as there wasn’t a single spot of dirt or grime anywhere! Everything from the silver lockers to the checker-patterned floors to the windows was suspiciously tidy despite there being no cleaners in sight.

I entered the sky-blue washroom; only one other kid was using the urinal. It was a little awkward, but I made my way to the private stall to have a breather. As five minutes of leaning against the stall passed, an unsettling “what the hell am I doing here?” kind of vibe hit me. 

Attempting to shake off this unfamiliar feeling, I went out of the stall, realized I was now alone, washed my hands at the marble sink, and analyzed my face in the mirror. Staring at my new haircut brought back the sound of my sniffling as I chopped off my braided locks of dark brown hair at the crack of dawn. I was lucky I ran out of my apartment before my Mom realized what I’d done to my hair.

Though I felt stupid upon looking at my face again, once the realization that my hair appeared a little uneven hit me, the hollow feeling truly hit me like a freight train. Staring back at my reflection was an anxious, undercover girl attending an all-boys school. As much as I wanted to go home, my Mama heavily depended on my good attendance… for some reason. She never told me exactly why their lives depended on me, besides “getting a proper education”. Whatever the main reason for sending me here is, it felt like a punishment. Why couldn’t she have sent me to an all-girls school? Or literally any other normal high school in Toronto? I would’ve been groovin' down the street with my old friends in my sweats and funky tie-dye shirts. Instead, I’m here pretending to be a boy at a strict, international military academy.

A deep, annoyed sigh escaped my mouth as I quietly made my way to the shared dorms with the other Canadians. 

Because I was in a part of the school where the classes were normally held, there weren’t many first-years or any other students around these empty, crimson-red halls. It seems the others were all too busy exploring their dorms or the cafeterias on each floor. It was a relief, as I’m still pretty self-conscious about whether or not I look “boy-ish” enough to fool others. 

I sharply turned the corner to my right and, nearly instantly, caught the scent of strong cologne. One of the identical twins from earlier approached me, and it was the one with the crazy glare in his eyes. On the surface, the boy seemed very well-kempt. Strands of medium-chocolate hair were neatly slicked to the sides, not a single scratch on his pale face, and he held a small smile that at first glance seemed sincere. 

But do you know how those perfect porcelain dolls from the 1940s give off a haunted kind of vibe? Like you’re being carefully watched even though the toy isn’t even alive? That’s the look I get from this boy. 

Gives me the heebie jeebies.

“Ciao, I saw you looking at me earlier. Care to tell me why?” He greeted with a thick Italian accent. 

Of course, being a professional class clown back home, I decided to invoke the likes of Jay Leno and play the role of a smooth-talking comic. “Thought I recognized ya from somewhere, but I couldn’t put my manly finger on it. Maybe you were on the news, dude!” I grinned with exaggerated machismo and a raised brow.

The boy’s smile melted into an expressionless face, but he soon raised his thin brow and dryly chuckled. “The news? Oh, please, the media back home wouldn’t dare to talk about the members of the Fiorello family besides my Nonno.” 

I don’t think he got my sarcasm; not to mention, this guy had a smug aura around him that reminded me of those snobby rich kids back home, but Italian instead of Polish and British.

“Ooh… the Fiorello family, huh?” I smoothly whistled with folded arms, pretending to know who the fuck these people were. “Impressive, impressive.”

“So, you know who we are?” The boy inched one step closer to me with a relatively intimidating smirk. Ah, I really set myself up with the lying. I awkwardly grinned as I continued to listen to this odd stranger from my Block. “It warms my heart to know our family name is even well known overseas.”

“I sure hope it does!...” I couldn’t think of anything funny to say, but I continued to awkwardly smile and accepted the fact that I just went jive turkey. 

“It makes me wonder what someone like you is doing this in a place like this?” The Italian rich kid’s lips pursed into a smile that really rubbed me the wrong way. We locked eyes, and I felt my fist curl.

‘Someone like me?’ What the hell was that supposed to mean?? 

Laughter was the only way to cool myself down, so I forced a grin and tapped my foot. “Tch! Long story short, my father was given a medal of honour as one of the youngest surviving soldiers in the war, and the school sent an invitation for his eldest son, once I came of age. To think it’d take this long to get here, but I eventually turned 14 like the rest of you!” 

“Hm. I see, how very interesting.” He spoke in a completely bored tone. “... So, who is your father?”

“Oh, his name was Will Hatcher.”  

That was a name I hadn’t said in a while. It's only been four years since my father died, and I still feel my throat going sore from the grief. But now wasn’t the time to start whining and crying about my old man; I had an Italian rich kid to get off my case and book it. 

“Will Hatcher… Ah, si. Canada’s youngest hero, who famously sniped the opposition in Sicily. I remember him now. It is such a shame he’s no longer with us.” His dulled, sarcastic tone reached my ears, and I felt my eyes go wide.

Both my sweaty hands clenched into a fist as that fucker purposely averted his cold gaze. I know this lame didn’t play the sarcasm card with my old man. No one makes fun of him, not even me. I opened my mouth with the intent to confront this stranger. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Instead of answering my question, that snobby shitstain was clearly amused by my tone and turned to walk the other way without uttering a single word. If it weren’t for Mama telling me to mind my damn business and the Academy’s expulsion clause, I would have treasured the memory of punching this kid’s lights out. 

But for now, that stupid boy can consider himself lucky.