Jessamine

When Jessie's camera was stolen by Santa Claus, her initial conclusion was that the hallucinations were back.

But, judging by the bewildered looks of the passerby, either the man dressed up as Santa had indeed committed larceny or everyone else was insane as she was.

She imagined her mother's response to that. 'No. You're not insane, Jess.' It was one of the last things she had heard mother say.

She shook off the memory and attempted to run after the pseudo-Santa. Key word- attempt. The crowds of New York were, well, crowded. Her mad dash was heavily obstructed by the throng of people, and when she realized she was turning heads, she forced herself to slow down.

James's words rang in her head. 'If you get out there, keep your head down. If someone recognizes you or calls the cops, your flight for freedom is going to turn into a fight.'

Sometimes, she wondered if she hadn't had bright white-blonde hair if people would notice her so easily. Probably not.

Despite the warning from the experienced, she found it incredibly hard to decelerate. Surprisingly hard, if you considered the fact that she'd only slept for six hours in the last two days. God, how was she even awake? Answer? Coffee.

That and the fact that her bipolar-powers were flaring up. Jessie's condition gave her an edge, every now and then, allowing her short bursts of almost manic energy.

She kept her eyes on Saint Nick as the rotund impersonator made the mistake to run through Central Park. Now, Jessie could run without suspicion.

It was cold, but Jessie was running on the adrenaline that was pumping heat through her veins. If you touched her pale skin, you would have flinched from the cold, but for now, a thin, white, long-sleeve shirt could do the trick.

Besides, Jessie was too focused on getting her camera back. The thief was slowing down, but heading out of the park. She poured on the speed as Santa ducked into an ally way.

Jaliyah

Jaliyah Ancelote Lansing.

My great-grandfather on my mother's side was Persian and my dad's from France. Mom chose the first name, dad chose the middle, since it was his last name.

Jaliyah. The only name I know the meaning of is my first. My mom's Jewish Iranian, and she wanted something close to Messiah, which is what she would've named me had I been a boy. Google popped up with Jaliyah, and I guess my parents liked the sound of it.

Sometimes I love it, like when my dad's side of the family's French accent mangles the J and makes it sound far cooler than it really is. Sometimes I hate it with a burning passion. For instance, the way every substitute teacher managed to butcher it up.

And here I was, sitting in front of an 'educated' person struggling with a name that wasn't even that complicated.

"Miss Lansing." The health inspector who I've marked as incompetent compromises on addressing me by my last name.

"That is my name." I reply lightly, letting my fingers trace the staircase pattern of the office wallpaper. It's a dry yellow with burnt orange lines that come together in a mess of right angles to form a tangle of steps.

The inspector notes my detached tone releases a sigh I'm not supposed to hear. "You've been in this institution for how long?"

I struggle to recall the date. "In and out for the last three years."

"How long have these stays varied?"

I keep my eyes on the wall. The view of scruffy brown hair and a beard are the only two prominent features. Otherwise, he's practically nondescript. "Mm... A couple weeks at a time."

"And how do you like staying here?"

"Well, it's no hotel, if you're asking about service. It's a bit below average. Not too bad." That's a downright lie. Life at the institution sucks for the most part.

"And what about your health?"

"I... deal. It helps me get on with life. But, occasionally, when I get out, I fall back."

Okay, so that's a big lie too. More than occasionally.

"How about the people?" Ah, the upside. The only reason I survive this place. But I can't let adults know how much I like them.

"Eh. They're people. Interesting, but then again, they're in here for a reason. I don't talk to them that much."

I wait for the 'you should socialize', the 'you should make friends', and the 'you're too antisocial.' To which I would reply, 'well, duh.'

I study the man scribbling on his notepad. How can he write so much from so little information?

He asks me more questions. Really dull and pointless ones that he could easily look up on my record.

Finally, finally, he says "Well, that's all I need, you can go." It's all I can do to not run for the door.

Jessamine

It was a stroke of pure luck. Bad luck. Jessie had been so caught up in chasing the fake Santa that she hadn't realized where she was chasing him to.

A game of cat and mouse should have ended quickly, but this time it was a mouse chasing a cat. And the cat sped right by a mouse trap.

Jessie honestly didn't notice that she'd passed the glass window-walls of the Institute until she heard a familiar voice calling after her. Great. Now a bigger mouse was chasing her. Matthew.

She ignored the voice, knowing full well that Matthew would chase after her. After all, she'd run out on his watch and she knew he'd be livid with anger and embarrassment.

She ran even faster, but when she'd looked away from Matthew, she'd lost track of Santa. Skidding to a stop on the sidewalk of an intersection, the blonde turned around, frantically hoping for a glimpse of a red suit.

Unfortunately, this gave Matthew enough time to catch up with her and tackle her.

Jessie smirked at the face that was no more than half a foot apart. "Fancy meeting you here, huh, Matt?" She winked, mock flirtatiously, and the enraged boy on top of her. "Come here often?"

Matthew groaned angrily and got off of her, taking a firm grip on her wrist, marching her back towards the Institute. Oh man, she was sure to catch it.