Ponyboy stared at the broom in his hands with uncertainty. His fingers tapped against the splintery staff restlessly. There was a bicycle seat strapped on the broom for convenience and comfortable sitting for every gender. The bristles were old and stringy, some straws bent.

"Please mount your brooms," the teacher instructed. Ponyboy did as he was told, gripping the staff tightly. He looked around and was relieved when he saw some nervous faces in the group of students. Maybe he wasn't the only one who had never ridden a broom before. Of course, the cocky faces of some of the other students didn't help his nerves. "I understand that some of you never flown a broom before. The broom is fueled by your concentration of magic. To start, fill your brooms with magic and control it by lifting in the air. Afterwards, you may lean to move forward or change directions. But, for today, we will only be lifting from the ground."

Closing his eyes, Ponyboy imagined his magic using his arms like a tunnel and entering the broom stick through his fingertips. The broom practically rumbled to life like a car. Ponyboy then imagined the broom lifting slowly and steadily and it followed, picking him up from the ground. He peaked open his eyes and widened them in shock, but as soon as he did that the broom dipped. Quickly, he closed his eyes, steadying the broom again. Again, he opened his eyes, looking around. There were some students that were already flying around, bored of waiting for the other students. The others were struggling just as Ponyboy was. One student was hanging onto the broom upside down until finally falling hard on the ground. Focusing on the other students, Ponyboy didn't see that his own broom was tilting before it was too late. One moment he was levitating, and the next his body was slammed onto the grass and dragged until he let go of the broom.

Ponyboy decided there that he hated flying.

o-o-o

When lunchtime came, Ponyboy followed the horde of people to the lunch hall. He looked around. All of the tables were filled and Ponyboy was worried that he would have to sit on the ground. But like a heavenly blessing, someone called out, "Over here!" Ponyboy turned around, thinking that it was intended for someone else, and found Keith waving him over. Two-Bit would never let it down if he knew that, for that moment, he thought he was an angel. Ponyboy slithered through the barrage of people to be engulfed in Keith's shoulder hug. "This is Horseboy, he's a first year. I met him earlier today."

Ponyboy rolled his eyes. "It's Ponyboy." Chuckles came from the table. Ponyboy sighed. It wasn't the first time people made fun of his name. He dragged his eyes from Keith to the occupants of the table and his body went rigid.

"That's a weird name," Steve snorted. Ponyboy gapped, unable to form words. What was going on here?

"M-My dad liked original names," Ponyboy finally managed out.

"My dad did too. He named me Sodapop. This is Steve. And that over there is Darry." Soda pointed towards the other male across the table.

"O-Oh. It's nice to meet you."

"Sit down!" Ponyboy complied.

"Come to think of it, your last name is Curtis like Darry and Soda," Two-Bit said. "And none of y'all are related. Are you sure you and Soda aren't brothers? You look awfully alike. You share the same last name and your father named you both some weird name."

"We're not," Soda confirmed, smiling without a care in the world.

"But it's still weird though," Steve mumbled.

"So, have you taken your type test yet?" Soda asked. Ponyboy shook his head.

"I think he might be a psychic type. He guessed what my last name was when we first met," Keith said. The others looked surprised.

"I might be," Ponyboy dryly chuckled. He really didn't guess. "What do psychic types do?"

"Psychic types are rare because they don't use physical magic. They can read people's minds, see memories, enter dreams, have premonitions, and talk telepathically," Darry explained.

"I definitely haven't had any of those moments."

"That's fine. The types don't start developing until around the time of the test," Soda said.

"What happens if you don't have a type?"

"Everyone has a type. There were some cases where they couldn't figure out the types of some people. They we just marked as inconclusive and sent back to go back to their normal schedule," Steve explained. Ponyboy let out a sigh of relief that he didn't know he held in.

"Worried about it that much?" Two-Bit asked. "It's fine. I was actually marked as inconclusive for a bit before they told me I was a traveler."

"A traveler?" Ponyboy questioned.

"I'm the rarest of the types." He puffed out his chest in pride.

Steve rolled his eyes. "That's because travelers die easily. They always fall into lava or something before they could control their teleportation powers."

"You're just jealous because you're a ferrous type. Bending metal isn't fun at all."

"Stop it. You'll scare the boy," Soda interrupted jokingly. "I'm a clerical type. I can heal the living."

"I specialize in terrakinesis," Darry said. "I control the earth."

"Just rock," Keith said. "He can't do anything with sand or nature."

"Oh. So, what's the purpose of segregating everyone?" Ponyboy asked.

"It's just to know what your specialties are. You still have classes with the people you usually do. They types are the things you can do without casting a spell. For example, one of the first year's teachers—I forget his name—can bend light. Usually spells have words and/or some hand movements, but he can do it without any of that. Other people can do your types magic with enough practice, bit it'll be harder," Darry explained. "People don't really try teleportation magic or psychic magic."

"That's because teleportation magic can kill you," Steve complained, wrinkling his nose.

"And I wouldn't want any chance of being trapped in someone's dream." Behind Darry, Ponyboy saw some movement. A head popped up behind his shoulder and Ponyboy jumped back in shock.

"What is that?" he asked, pointing to the stone monster that clung to Darry's shoulder. It had bat-like ears, and nasty teeth and claws. Large wings stretched across its back, and Ponyboy didn't know how he didn't see them before. Its red eyes scrutinized him like he was next on its dinner plate.

"You've never seen a gargoyle before?"

Well, Ponyboy had seen gargoyles, but, in his world, they weren't alive. He shrugged. "I've seen them before, but…"

"Not as a familiar?"

"A familiar?"

"They help you with magic. You'll be getting your familiar after your midterm test. Mine is named Stone."

"That's not a very original name," Ponyboy said, indicating to the gargoyle that was made out of stone. The gargoyle growled as Darry glared at him. Maybe he shouldn't have insulted his uncreative names, they "just met" and all. He always had a rough relationship with Darry, and having a clean plate was something he always wanted. He didn't want to have some sort of uncomfortable, brotherly rivalry like in his world.

"My familiar is a unicorn," Soda interrupted, sensing the tenseness. "His name is Mickey Mouse." Ponyboy almost laughed at the name. Maybe some things don't change much in both worlds.

"He named it after some story that was passed down by his ancestors. Something about a mouse and a boat, or whatever?" Steve said, rolling his eyes. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small, blue man that had the face of a goblin. "This is Gizmo, the gremlin."

Ponyboy turned to Two-Bit, expecting him to show off his familiar. He grinned and pulled out a small man about the size of his hand. He had white hair, and a long, gruffly beard. The miniature figure wore rugged clothes, but the most distinctive article wasn't the boots that curled at the toes, bit the pointy, red gnome hat. "This is my lupin."

"Named?" Steve was grinning and the others held back smiles as if they knew an inside joke.

"Little Me."

Ponyboy choked a bit. "Little Me?"

"I didn't know I was naming the familiar until it was too late. But he is awesome."

"What can he do?" But Ponyboy never got the answer as he was cut off.

"Food's here!" Two-Bit interrupted happily. "I was starving!"

Like a wave, food appeared out of nowhere on large platters. Ponyboy had never seen this much food all at once in his life. His mouth salivated as he, and everyone else in the hall, grabbed the food. It didn't take long before he finished his plate. People were beginning to leave and Ponyboy was just as nervous as he was in the morning.

"What's wrong?" Soda asked after noticing the discomfort.

"I'm just having trouble finding my classes."

"You're having trouble with the moving classrooms? They easiest way is to develop your own way to get to class to class, but since you're new, you have to find a pattern. That's all I can really say, sorry."

"That's fine. Thanks."

The lunchroom was cleared out and Ponyboy rushed out of the lunch room. He was walking down the corridors, lost. He sighed. He was never going to survive if he couldn't find his classes. The corridors were almost empty by now and he was about to ask for help when he heard a whisper, almost inaudible.

"I just want today to end."

Ponyboy would have dismissed it if he didn't recognize the voice as the guy who questioned the teacher in his first period. Since there wasn't enough first years to form two classes, they just stuffed all of them together. He turned around to search for the student to follow them in the class, but no one was in the corridors by now.

Shrugging, Ponyboy continued forward. He only made a few steps before the same voice talked again.

"The teacher is always late."

This time the voice was louder. Ponyboy turned around, but, once again, no one was there. He continued down the corridor, the voice increasing in volume, until he found where the voice was omitting from. He opened the door, and, to his relief, found his class. It was just in time too. A hand was placed between his shoulder blades and gently pushed him forward to the desks.

When the day finally ended, Ponyboy slumped down in his bed. He turned over, expecting to see his brother there, but the side was empty. He sighed, curling into himself. He wondered if they were searching for him on the other side. They had to be worried sick. He had to get back somehow.