A/N: Happy weekend, all! I'm so excited for this new story. It's the next installment in my Age Series (it's such a tacky name that I HAD to keep it) - i.e. Fourteen and Sixteen, but not related to either. It's a school setting, but it isn't about lockers or cheerleaders or jocks or even classes. It's about transitions and choices, and some of the things that fall in the laps of typical nineteen year olds (at least, in this part of the world). It's also about being normal, which is such a loaded word, and means a zillion different things to different people. I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: Michael Buckley owns almost everyone in this story. The Registrar, however, belongs to me.

~QaS

Sabrina Grimm ripped the envelope open with trembling fingers and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside. Rapidly scanning the paragraphs in neat print - information about dates and times and venues and instructions - her eyes registered one phrase -

I am pleased to inform you . . .

She inhaled deeply, feeling her blood pound in her ears, surrendering to a sense of overwhelming relief - and nervous excitement.

She'd gotten exactly what she'd wanted, was finally going to do exactly what she'd chosen. The door to the rest of her life had been thrown wide open, and she was going to sprint through it on winged feet.

And, for the first time in her life, of her own free will, she'd be leaving her family - and the boy who'd become closer than that - behind.

Graduation, Sabrina Grimm decided, was way overrated.

She didn't get the hat-throwing thing, for one, nor the endless open-house buffets in garages festooned with paper streamers, balloons and montages of awkward childhood photographs. Why would anyone, least of all strangers, want to gawk at pictures of fashion disasters in braces and bad hair? And what was with the trophies? Senior Volleyball Tournaments, Under-18 Inter-district Swim Meets, High School Debate Championships - sure, she conceded, she could see the point in those. But the Preschool Beanbag Race Runner-Up ribbons and Tiny Tots Pie-Eating awards that posed alongside Susan's First Stuffed Moose Lovie and Johnny's Baby Quilt?

It was, she deduced, as much a celebration of children having finally grown up as it was an incidental rummage sale - a free-for-all of the humiliating ways that parents coped with imminent empty nest sentiments.

Or maybe - she chided herself - this is what regular people do when they look back on their school years; not everyone heaves a sigh of relief that they can finally stop pretending to be normal.

It was ironic, really, that she was still pretending. She'd really thought that by leaving Ferryport Landing and finishing her junior and senior years in a normal high school, she could - at last - be just that.

But normal seldom is as normal does; she should've known better.

She blamed it on the fundamental fact that she was, among other things, immortal.

The truth be told, the transition itself hadn't been hard. After the war, the townsfolk had slowly rebuilt Ferryport Landing from its ruins. The freedom that came with the barrier's destruction had been at the expense of families and homes, and recovery had been a major overhaul, with everyone reshuffling jobs and responsibilities and doing what was needed to bring the town back to life. Her parents had stayed to help with the rebuild, so she, Daphne and Basil - then a toddler - had grown whatever roots they could to call the place home for the indefinite future. Eventually, when the schools were staffed, they'd even returned to formal education. Her life, she'd thought, was finally back on track - the way it was before her parents' disappearance had splintered her happy, normal destiny off into the Twilight Zone.

Then, when the town was once again up and running, her family had turned to rebuilding themselves. Sabrina's father Henry had found a job in New York City and they'd moved back to their old world of skyscrapers and honking taxicabs. Sabrina was surprised at how little she'd minded uprooting herself in the middle of her sophomore year of high school. She'd told herself that her grandmother's quaint fairytale village had never been her true home, that her heart had always belonged in the city, and that her semesters in Ferryport's spanking new schools would forever be tainted by the memories of rogue guidance counselors, traitorous friends, and students enslaved into powering breakouts that could've leveled even Alcatraz.

But if she were truly honest - and she wasn't much these days - it was really because she was missing a certain boy with razor wit and a wicked smirk who, years before, had skipped town with her uncle to see the world. Ferryport Landing was oddly sterile without him, she'd realized in the quiet early days of his absence. After all, he'd been literally painting the town red even before she'd arrived, and she couldn't for the life of her remember the place without him being an absolute menace in it. It seemed as if, when he'd gone, a part of her had gone, too.

And so they'd packed up their lives, kissed Granny goodbye, hugged Elvis and Tobias (whom they no longer thought of as Mr. Canis), and started anew (or a-old, as Basil wryly commented): new apartment, new accents, new newspapers, new places to buy groceries, and new schools for everyone. Sabrina was used to moving, and she'd fully expected to have no social life and to skulk under the radar for the two years until graduation but, much to her surprise, she'd found friends she'd actually enjoyed being with. And the school work was even interesting - a little pedantic, perhaps, after being immersed in fantasy, cultural tensions and strategic warfare for most of her adolescence, but stimulating nonetheless. She'd felt engaged and challenged, motivated to learn about how the world worked, the triumphs and mistakes of the mighty, the way to build dreams.

So she'd thrown herself into school. She'd gotten good grades, joined the school's mixed martial arts team, and organized a couple of community projects plus one emotionally-charged rally to raise awareness of abuse within the city's foster care system. She was no valedictorian and she certainly wasn't likely to be voted homecoming queen, but people generally respected her; no one had scribbled her name and number in the boys' bathroom, or cast aspersions on her virtue on Youtube, or accused her of stealing their boyfriend. She was, by all accounts, a normal student destined for, if not greatness, at least success beyond the diploma toward which she'd been working so hard.

And now, here she was - weeks from walking on the stage in her gown and cap - rolling her eyes.

No, Sabrina Grimm was not rolling her eyes because she was So Done With Normal School; she was just tired of fighting what it meant to be normal. She'd been fighting it all her life, after all.

But sometime in the middle of her senior year - she remembered the exact moment - she came to terms with it.

It was the day she'd met with her guidance counselor for what the kids at school called the Exit Interview. She'd sat down in a chair facing him, his desk between them, his hand resting on a lined notepad. She was there, he'd revealed, so he could "get to know her" - he was writing her a letter of recommendation for college applications, and he wanted to make her "stand out from the crowd."

She'd smiled and thanked him, secretly convinced he said that to every student who sat in her chair, spouting their accomplishments and particular talents in exchange for a glowing testimonial. She'd closed her eyes for a moment and cleared her mind of her old prejudices regarding demented psychological and social workers (whom she called the Self-Help Nutjobs) and sat back, ready.

And found that she couldn't answer any of his questions, not honestly.

"What are some of your special skills, unique abilities and/or accomplishments?" He'd begun.

Let's see. . . I can negotiate with megalomaniacs, kill monsters, survive poisoning, spontaneously grow body parts, pick locks, escape from heavily guarded rooms, outwit criminals and sadists, break spells with just my lips, and blow up buildings. Also, I have a mean right hook.

She'd reminded herself that he was just doing his job, and blurted out something about being assertive and disciplined, of having some success in problem-solving and deduction.

"And what are some weaknesses?"

Magic. That's my kryptonite. I almost died from it, once.

She'd mentioned that she was "working on delegating better".

"How would you illustrate your independence and resourcefulness?"

Um. . . how about "I escaped from numerous abusive foster homes and kept my sister safe on the run for two years, then saved the world"?

She'd told him about her community projects, how she'd helped her martial arts team raise funds for new equipment.

"Ah!" The guidance counselor had remarked, leaning back in his chair. "My son does kali and a little bit of fencing. The discipline carries over to so many other aspects of life, don't you think? Which dojo did you train at?"

Briefly, the School For Bad Apples, run by Snow White - the princess, you know? Fairest of them all, as the rumor goes. After that, the King of Faerie himself trained me, with a toothpick of a sword. And for practical experience, I fought monsters in a war. You could say my dojo was pretty much the world. And I bet I could whip your son's behind anytime and twice on Sunday.

She'd dismissed it as just a hobby, and explained that she really only had time to train in school.

"Tell me about your leadership experiences."

Funny you should ask that. You know that war I mentioned? I led an army to fight it. And we won.

She'd smiled modestly, and explained how she'd spearheaded the rally that had resulted in the closure of three foster homes with dubious ethics on the Lower East Side. Her interviewer had looked suitably impressed.

"Describe yourself in three words."

Tired. Thankful. Yearning.

She'd thought for a long time, before saying, carefully, "I used to think I wanted to start over, live my life differently. Not because it was bad, but because I didn't want it. Then I realized that I was just waiting to grow up, so I could choose what I wanted to be. Sorry - I know that's longer than three words."

The guidance counselor has simply smiled and assured her that it was perfectly okay. He'd finished with one last series of questions.

"Colleges and employers sometimes like to have character references. They're usually someone who knows you well but who isn't family, and the more established they are in their work, or field, the better. Do you know anyone like that? Someone of high standing in the community?"

Does a king count? She'd bitten her lip to stop grinning. Because I know one. Quite well, in fact. He's the one who trained me to fight. A bit of an ass, but he's got more clout in his community than the President - one of the perks of being King, I guess. And he's seen all the worst bits of me, as well as - I hope - the good.

She didn't remember her answer to the guidance counselor, and had left the room somewhat depressed. No one here truly knows me, she'd reflected, thinking sadly of her two best girlfriends, and the couple of boys she'd gone out with on a few dates, none of whom had even an inkling of her bizarre past, or her familiarity with a world in which the usual rules of logic didn't apply.

I've been living a lie. I'm not normal, no matter how hard I want to be.

Then there was senior prom. She didn't get that, either.

She tried to be excited on behalf of her two girlfriends - the one who was madly in love with the sweet, shy boy on her Math Olympiad Team, and the other one, who was trying to get over the guy who'd broken her heart over the Christmas break.

"Guys are jerks," the heartbroken one said, watching the couples in the lunchroom.

"Not all of them are," the besotted one countered.

"Just ask him, already," Heartbroken told her, but not unkindly. "If he isn't a jerk, he'll say yes."

"But I don't want him to feel sorry for me!" Besotted reasoned, her hands in classic Bosom Protection Position.

Heartbroken snorted. "It's not pity, you daft cow; it's relief. The poor boy's been in love with you since 7th grade. The only reason he hasn't made the first move is because he's looked at all the factors - your gorgeous face, your scintillating personality, the fact that your IQ is higher than half the senior class's combined - then calculated the probability of being rejected himself, and found that the statistics weren't in his favor. Statistics don't lie, especially to a Math nerd."

"He's not a nerd!" Besotted's eyes widened in indignation. "He's so. . ." she sighed.

"Sabrina," Heartbroken turned to her, "you tell her. She's worn me down."

"Emily's right, Jen." Sabrina said. "The boy is ripe for the picking."

Jen made a disgusted face. "Don't talk about him like he's . . . fruit."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Just go make out with him right now, Jen," she warned, "or I'm walking over there myself and dragging him back here to you so you can both make a huge scene."

Jen's eyes widened in horror, her face turning red. Sabrina marveled for the hundredth time at how her friend, arguably the smartest - and nicest - girl in school, who could hold her own against visiting lecturers and reporters in any topic they cared to name, could nonetheless dissolve into an irrational mess when it came to this boy.

"Jen," she began again, "just go talk to him, okay? It's your first crush, so of course you're a wreck. We've all been there. Trust me, he'll be so relieved you spoke up that he'll do the rest."

Jen stared at Sabrina, chewing her lower lip. Then she stood to her feet, grimly resolved.

"It's not an exam, for goodness' sake!" Sabrina assured her, taking in her determined stance. "It's just Roy. Go."

"Or I'll propose to him for you right now!" Emily said, loudly.

Jen whimpered and went.

The two girls watched her departing back for a few moments, and then Emily turned to Sabrina.

"We've all been there, huh?"

Sabrina swiveled to face her. "What?"

"Who've you been there with?

Shoot.

"And don't tell me it's Jason or Chris, because it's clear you're not that into them," Emily continued, her eyes flitting between Jen, sheepishly creeping up on her intended prey, and Sabrina, who'd retreated into her private world, wishing she could disappear.

"Nobody, Em. I was just . . . generalizing. You know, so Jen wouldn't feel like she's weird or anything."

Emily regarded her in quiet scrutiny.

"I don't buy that. It's someone from back home . . ." she postulated, "or wherever home was, before you moved here."

Sabrina clenched her toes inside her shoes. Emily was too perceptive for her own good; she'd be a heck of a detective herself someday. Or a shrink. No, not a shrink - not enough consideration for the acute discomfort of others, Sabrina decided. Then again, for all her relentless candor, Emily had also taken a chance on Sabrina when she'd first arrived - the cautious and slightly aloof New Girl trying to disappear into the woodwork. Emily might be irredeemably blunt, but she was loyal, and disarmingly open and unguarded.

Quite unlike Sabrina, in other words.

Sabrina sighed, meeting Emily's eyes, not speaking.

"Let me guess -" Emily squinted at her, their other friend's romantic endeavor all but forgotten, " - an arranged marriage you can't get out of. Shockingly archaic in this day and age, especially in a place like New York, but you're an enigma, Sabrina Grimm. And it's hard to profile an enigma. Still, who's to say you didn't in fact come from a little town where it's perfectly acceptable for parents to match you up with their neighbor's kid at the tender age of ten, in a mutually beneficial arrangement to merge farmlands or livestock or whatever? And while your particular bachelor farmer is extremely easy on the eye, you can't ask him to the prom because he's a horrible dancer and, therefore, utter humiliation on two left feet. So . . . am I right?"

Both girls laughed, but Sabrina exhaled sharply at how closely Emily had grazed the truth. Except for the bit about dancing - if there was something the people in "Sabrina's little town", as Emily had put it, could do, it was dance.

"I'm not giving you the satisfaction of an answer, Em," Sabrina deflected.

"You've gotta admit that it was more dramatic than 'he broke my heart and I didn't see it coming and now I'm just biding time till I can pull myself together and return to my old gung-ho, amazingly intuitive self'," Emily returned, her grin fading slightly as her voice shook.

Sabrina put a hand on her arm. "Em, he didn't deserve you. And you are your old gung-ho, amazingly intuitive self." You have no idea just how amazingly intuitive. "You're no less of an amazing person simply because you've lost someone."

"You know what the worst thing is?" Emily looked into the distance. "I can't even be mad at him because he did everything right - he wasn't two-timing me, he wasn't being a butthead, he didn't give me that lame line - you know, the 'it's not you - it's me' one - and he never even asked if we Could Still Be Friends. I mean, he couldn't have broken up better if he'd tried. But it still sucked."

Sabrina rubbed her friend's arm. Emily was one of the most resilient people she knew; she was broken right now, but she'd live.

"Is he cute, at least?" Emily turned back to her. "Your arranged-marriage guy?"

Sabrina laughed, tipping her chin in the direction of Jen, who was smiling at Roy. His own face was glowing so brightly that it could've lit up the night sky.

Emily followed her gaze and muttered, "Way to go, Jen, you little wench," her own smile matching theirs.

Sabrina watched them shyly banter for a while, then answered without turning to look at Emily, "Yes, he is. And it wasn't an arranged marriage, idiot. I was sucked into the future and discovered we were married to each other. He's the King of . . . Fairyland. He has a brother, FYI, if you're interested. Not as cute, but much more charming."

Emily guffawed, shoving Sabrina's shoulder with hers, just as the bell sounded for the end of lunch period. "And you laughed at my story. Yours is way more ridiculous."

Sabrina rose, taking the leftovers of her lunch with her.

"That's why I don't tell anyone," she whispered under her breath.