1.

I almost go dumpster diving

and I get saved by a knight with shining...oatmeal?

It's every child's dream to start off the school day by being forced into a dumpster but honestly, by now, I've just learned to accept it as the beginning of a daily routine.

I felt my back slam against the bricked wall of the school building from being shoved against it. The hands that gripped my shoulders belonging to a girl who currently stood on the supposed popular side of the seventh grade's broad and admittedly diverse spectrum of students. The girl who had apparently set herself a task of relentlessly tormenting me every day of the week.

Charlotte Novak's light brown hair was pulled up into an elegant looking ponytail, her pale blue eyes sparkling with amusement at my obvious discomfort.

"Cough up Gilley," she snarled, causing her accomplices (three other girls who were proudly sporting priceless jewellery straight from Daddy's bank account) to laugh. Charlotte proceeded to bask in the attention like it was the only thing that gave her life.

"This is just getting way too cliché now, don't you think? What do you want this time, my lunch money?" I tugged my lips into a taunting pout. "Did Mommy and Daddy restrain your pocket money from one thousand dollars to five hundred?"

Naturally, the snarky retort resulted in another slam against the wall and this time I found myself wincing as my head banged against the bricks. "You're such a little weirdo," Charlotte hissed. "Don't you at least try to be normal? It might save you the pain of being bullied every day."

"If you're what they call normal, I think I'll pass thanks – ouch," there goes the head again. I've officially...what was the saying again – got my bell rung? I think that was it, yeah we'll go with that.

"You know what; I think we need to teach you another way to not underestimate us," said Queen Bee (I decided it was a fitting title) and I watched as her eyes drifted sideways to one of the green dumpsters lined up against the far wall. Her eyes flickered with something akin to glee as an idea sparked in her mind. "Ever wanted to go dumpster diving, Gilley?"

I shrugged. "Not particularly, but I guess I would be willing to give it a try if you insist."

And that, my friends, was how I found myself being relentlessly pushed towards the nearest dumpster that probably contained several weeks' worth of uneaten, rotten cafeteria food. Often at times, I wonder how I exactly manage to get myself into these situations. I'm sure taunting the bullies had something to do with it. I probably shouldn't do it, but heck the temptation was too strong to resist.

I turned my head to look at Queen Bee with an innocent smile. "So, how long do you want me to stay in the dumpster exactly? An hour is my limit – I have classes to attend to as well, you know."

Charlotte just stared before finally re-gathering her few remaining brain cells to shove me forwards against the metal of the container. "Just get into the dumpster you moron," she snapped.

I lifted my hands in mock surrender.

"Alright, alright – calm yourself," I reached up and grasped the rim of the dumpster, and then used my feet to climb myself up and over. I was pleasantly surprised when the several plastic bags full of decaying food created a nice cushiony feeling beneath me. Then I peered back down at the four girls, their faces proudly displaying victorious smirks.

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot," I said. "If I find anything good in here I'll make sure to pass it along."

The smirks swiftly disappeared and were replaced by looks of repulsion. "I want you to lie down in it and then shut the lid so you can't see anything. You'll stay in there until I say you can come out."

After releasing an exhale, I nodded. "You girls are sure not easy to please, I bet your parents must be huge fans of yours," I grinned when I heard the girls growl in offence. I then plopped myself down onto the pile of rubbish and was about to lie backwards when the hurried sounds of footsteps made me halt upright in a sitting position.

"Back off you...you stupidly overdressed girls!" shouted a voice that I was very much familiar with.

Splat came the sound, followed by the surprised squeals of the four bullies.

As I looked over the rim of the dumpster, I just managed to catch a glimpse of the girls running away from behind the school building with a substance that suspiciously resembled oatmeal dripping from their hair and faces. Adjusting my glasses which had become slightly lopsided, I raised an eyebrow at the meek looking owner of the voice.

"'Overdressed girls?' Really? That was the best insult you could come up with Ash?" I questioned and a boy with untamed curly blond hair with dark brown eyes found a sudden interest in the floor.

"I don't like saying bad words." I heard him mumble.

"Hey, the oatmeal was a nice touch," I told him and then frowned. "Wait, was that your breakfast?"

"Maybe, but it doesn't matter – I can just get another bowl later," he peered up at me, his overly baggy clothes rustling in the wind. "Do you need any help getting down?"

"Nope. I got it," I swung my leg over the top of the dumpster, followed by the rest of my body until I finally had both my feet placed safely back on the ground. I brushed a hand through my long light brown hair, trying to sift out any remaining remnants of the dumpster that might've ended up caught. And then I placed a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks for the rescue."

Ash beamed happily. "No problem," we began to walk towards the front entrance of the school. "You know you shouldn't taunt them. It only makes it worse."

"I'm not just going to stand there and let them bully me without at least getting in a word or two," I replied firmly, my bag safely returned to its original position on my back instead of the floor. "You should've seen their faces though; it makes it a whole lot more worth it."

I may be taller than the average height of a twelve-year-old female at five foot three, but when it came to self-defence it was practically hopeless. My body was lanky, something that can be a major disadvantage when fighting. It's difficult to move out of the way of an approaching punch or kick, it makes you feel a bit awkward trying to shuffle your way around.

And then there were the glasses that have about a ninety-nine percent chance of being knocked off and shattered. If I had a dollar for the amount of times that had happened, I wouldn't even need to be in school in the first place.

Then there's Ash.

Trying to figure out Ash's age was a complicated mystery that I gave up on a few weeks after he arrived half-way through the school year. He was taller than me, probably older too, but he had a boyish look to him alongside the severe case of acne and voice breaks. It was like you come to one conclusion, only to have that simply obliterated by the next.

"Still," Ash said as we walked along through the hallway to our class. "You just made the consequences worse for yourself."

I sighed. "I know, I know. I'll just try to avoid them next time."

"That's the smartest choice," he nodded.

"What do we have first period anyway?" I asked, changing the topic.

"Social studies and then math," Ash looked down at his wristwatch that noted down that we were ten-minutes early to lessons. He glanced at me when my shoulders slumped in resignation. "Still take it that you're not having much fun with that dyslexia?"

I gave him an unimpressed look. "It isn't something that just goes away and Mr O'Neill always gives us these huge text-based worksheets. I tell him every time that I have trouble with it and yet he still doesn't listen."

"I'll help you," Ash said. "When he's not looking I'll explain what the topic is."

Thankfully, Ash did just that. Throughout the rest of the day, Ash would help me by detailing down the general topic of the lesson – whether it was pre-algebra or pre-Civil War history, he was there until the final bell went.

I found myself eagerly rushing out into the fresh Californian air of National City, embracing the early evening sun as it made its departure towards the horizon. "I will never ever get tired of this," I told my only friend when we reached the streets. "What about you? Ash?"

"Huh?"

I glanced at him. His eyes were darting all around us as if he was searching for something.

"What are you – holy moley are those guys huge," I soon found myself gaping at the two men standing across the street that Ash had been warily staring at. "I don't know about you, but I don't think that's natural. They must be on steroids or something. I mean surely –"

"We should hurry up and get to your home now – don't look at them," Ash interrupted suddenly, his hand grasping my arm and tugging me back along the street.

A frown twisted itself upon my lips. "I mean, I get that they look intimidating and all, but I don't think they'd attack us for no reason Ash."

"You'd be surprised," he mumbled incoherently.

"What?"

"Nothing...don't worry, just come on," he had suddenly become skittish with nerves, something that was unusual for Ash. So unusual that I didn't protest as he practically tugged me all the way home. I watched as he constantly shot anxious glances over his shoulder until we finally reached my house at the end of a long, winding street.

As soon as the front door clicked shut behind us, he released a breath of relief. "That's better," he said.

"I think you were freaking out for no reason. They barely even looked at us."

"Yeah, but they were probably in that area for a reason," he replied.

This still didn't explain anything, and I was pretty sure my eyebrows knitted themselves together in confusion as I continued to stare at him. "Why wouldn't they be there? It's a public area, it's not a place that's off limits," I ran a hand through my hair. "Ash, what's wrong?"

He looked reluctant to speak for a moment; his eyes seemed distant as if pondering on a topic in his mind. And then just as he opened his mouth to speak, he was interrupted.

"Clara? Ash?" another voice called from the kitchen. There was the sound of someone shuffling down the laminate floor and I turned around to smile at my adoptive mother: Felicity Gilley. She was wearing an apron over her clothes along with a pair of slippers (a sign that she was in her cooking mood), her silvery blonde hair tied up into a neat bun.

The scent of something baking in the oven hit my nostrils. I watched as she smiled warmly at us from where she stopped at the foot of the stairs. "You're home early."

I could hear the radio playing from the kitchen. I recognised the song as Here Comes The Sun by the Beatles. "Yeah Ash here decided that were going to power walk home today," I shrugged. "Something spooked him."

My mom's face became etched with concern. "Really?" she said. "What did you see Ash?"

The said-boy placed his bag by the coat stand and wrung his hands together, glancing in my direction before turning to face Mom again. Apparently a silent message that I didn't get passed through them and she seemed to nod almost timidly in understanding. Then the smile reappeared, though this time it seemed almost forced.

"How about you two head on upstairs while I finish up with dinner?" she spoke again. "I made a raisin and currant cake for you both for afterwards –"

"Ooo," Ash seemed to perk up immediately at this. "Can I have some now?"

Mom shrugged. "I don't see why not – come with me to the kitchen and I'll cut you a slice. What about you, Clara? Would you like some now?"

I pulled a face. "I don't like raisins or currants. It tastes weird."

She rolled her eyes, though it seemed to bring back a naturalness into her smile as she guided Ash forwards to the kitchen. "Well then, you'll just have to wait until dinner to be fed again."

My stomach growled in protest, contradicting my brain that was repulsed by the idea of such a monstrosity of a cake. "That's fine with me," I said simply with a confident smirk.

No it isn't, my stomach told me, I'm hungry so feed me.

I ignored it and carried on upstairs to my room, a little confused when my mom and Ash's conversation had just dropped to a hushed whisper as if they were afraid I'd overhear.

I crossed the hallway and swung open my door to see a middle-aged man with light brown hair and blue eyes smile at me from where he was sat on my bed. His hands were clasped together on his lap, and he wore a simple shirt, jeans and a pair of men's loafers. I quickly glanced behind me to make sure the coast was clear before closing the door and beaming.

"Hi Dad," I said simply. As I moved across the room to lean my bag against the cupboard, the figure of my dad rippled so that you could just see the faintest flickers of mist drift and swirl away from him until it reformed again. "School was pretty normal as usual."

His smile widened, standing to his feet. The sudden movement made more whirls of mist which this time took longer to reform. "That's good to hear Clara," he said in a voice that sounded echoic like he was standing in some large cavern rather than my room. "Those girls have finally left you alone?"

"Oh yeah," I lied. "They got fed up with me ages ago."

Dad looked so proud right at that moment that I felt a knot of guilt begin to form in my stomach. "I told you it would work, poppet. If you give them no reaction then they'll see that they have had no affect on you. Worked with me in my school days, I was sure it would work with you," I turned away and looked at the mirror standing against the wall. A pair of green eyes stared back at me – a green that Dad had said came from my biological mother.

In the background of the mirror, I saw my dad's smile twist into a frown. "Poppet? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just remembered how much homework I have to do in so little time," I said, moving to unzip my bag and tugging out my notebook. "Math homework, social studies and science. It's like they want us to have no life."

My dad chuckled; the mist swirled around him again. "I'm sure that's not the case. Homework helps your mind remember what it's already learnt – you'll need that for your exams."

I scoffed. "Yeah and then what about after those exams? All that information we've learnt will all just end up down the drain," I looked back up at him. "Like when am I ever going to need algebra in the future? It doesn't have anything to do with what I want to become."

"But you don't know what you even want to become yet, do you? Nobody really knows for sure at your age. You have so many paths to choose from that when it comes down to picking one, you can get stuck," he shrugged and stepped forwards. "Whatever you think you might want to do now will most likely change by the time you're sixteen, when it's time to leave school."

I placed down the social studies folder onto the floor and stared at the first paragraph entitled 'Age of Exploration', sighing when the text seemed to do their usual trick of blending together into a backwards mess of incomprehensible words.

"It's hard to do homework when I can't even read what it's actually telling me," I rubbed at my eyes and refocused them only to receive the same disappointing results. "Why can't I just be normal? Why can't I have a brain that has an actual shred of intelligence?"

His arm reached forwards to touch my shoulder, only for his hand to dissolve into a cloud of mist. I watched as a look of annoyance briefly crossed his face before he took a step backwards. "You are smart Clara – having dyslexia doesn't mean that you're dumb or without any intelligence...it just means you have to work a little harder than the other children," he looked down at the folder and then up again.

"I mean Pablo Picasso had dyslexia and look at him now, a trendsetting art icon. Then there's Steven Spielberg – a successful filmmaker who didn't have a proper diagnosis until he was sixty. Sixty! There's Albert Einstein-"

"Yeah because they actually had a talent in what they do," I interrupted with pursed lips. "If I actually have a talent in something, I haven't found it yet."

He knelt down on his knees. "You'll find it Clara; you just have to keep searching."

There was a knock on the door and my eyes widened in panic. "Clara?" Mom asked curiously from the other side of the door. I sprung to my feet, rushing over to the door and placing my hand over the handle so that I could stop it from turning if she attempted to open it.

"Are you alright?" her voice was now tinged with concern.

"Oh yeah! Totally – hold on a minute!" I closed my eyes, wishing for my father to vanish from the room and breathing a sigh of relief once I caught him evaporating into non-existence. I swung the door open, staring into the puzzled expression of my adoptive mother. "There we go. Sorry, I was just sorting through my school bag – I decided to prioritise my homework for this week."

She seemed unconvinced but apparently decided to let it slide; she stepped into the room, looking down at the scattered schoolwork. "I thought you were talking to someone."

"Uh that was probably me – I was talking to myself. I do that a lot," I looked back at the doorway expecting to see Ash's form standing out in the hall only to be surprised when the boy seemed to be nowhere in sight.

"Where's Ash?" I asked.

She waved dismissively. "He's downstairs helping himself to my cake," she turned and smiled at me. "I just wanted to check on how you are."

I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but there was something about Mom that made her seem as though she was sad about something. She always seemed to have some melancholic vibes about her whenever she would look at me. I knew there was something she wasn't telling me about my other mom, the same Mom that left me and Dad alone when I was only a few months old.

Dad rarely says anything about her either, both when he was alive and dead.

"I'm fine Mom," I told her simply.

Mom raised an eyebrow, disbelievingly. "Ash told me that those girls picked on you again today."

Of course he did, I thought, I'll make sure to pay him back for that later.

I shrugged my shoulders before moving over to my bed so I could sit down. "They do it all the time, it doesn't really bother me. Besides, the only reason they probably do it is because they don't have anything better to do. They get everything handed to them on a silver platter: money, parents," I winced when I realised my mistake and hurriedly tried to explain myself. "Not that I don't love you Mom – I do, I didn't mean that –"

She smiled warmly and I felt myself release an exhale.

"I know what you meant Clara and I take no offence to it," she sat down next to me, wrapping a hand around my shoulders so that she could pull me closer. "I understand you see, I never knew who my own real father was. He left when I was young, similar to what your mom did."

I peered at her. "You've never told me that before."

"I don't really like to talk about him," she continued after a pause. "I met him after a while – when I was around your own age. He explained why he couldn't be there when I was young and eventually I understood."

"So you forgave him?"

"Not right away," Mom insisted. "But after a while, it took time of course. These things always do."

I remained silent for a moment, processing this newly discovered information. It's weird to think in the ten years being within the care of my adoptive mom, I had never known that.

"What's his name?" the words left my mouth before I knew it.

She patted my shoulder. "I think that will be a story for another day," she got up from the bed and gestured towards the door. "Come on. Dinner is ready, I made vegetable carbonara."

"Is that another one of those new recipes you decided to try? Please tell me it doesn't have mushrooms."

My mom released a melodramatic sigh with a shake of her head. "You are the fussiest child. What's wrong with mushrooms? They did nothing to you."

"They taste horrible and they have a weird texture. They remind me of slugs whenever I eat them."

"Of course they do."

"They do!" I insisted.