Jane is the school mascot. It had seemed like a great idea, the summer before freshman year: weeks of summer vacation out of her suffocating house, plenty of events during the school year, and it even knocked out her Fine Arts credit requirements! Maybe secretly she had joined with some small, private hope of making friends, but she's realistic now. People generally don't like her. Whether it's the hair or the clothes or the way she talks or the fact that her mother is the headmistress or the magic, she couldn't say, but they're certainly uninterested in talking to her.
And that's fine. Jane shows up, does her part, and leaves without a fuss. People don't have to like her. They just need to tolerate her presence. The world is full of mundane human beings chock full of wariness towards anything slightly out of the ordinary (somewhat justified, Jane had to admit, given approximately all of recent history). Regardless, Jane still has to live amongst them without riling them up into a bloodthirsty mob, even if the magic packed beneath her skin hisses and burns from the confinement. She tugs at the hot collar of her costume, squinting in the bright sun, and allows herself a quiet sigh. The Fine Arts credits aren't worth this long, hot slog in the sun—not without a single friend.
The school band had been pulled together on short notice, knocking the schedule for the final days of camp into complete disarray. The band director's hair stuck out in messy, anxious spikes from constantly running his hands through it. Not that they needed much practice for this performance—they'll be standing completely stationary, cycling through the school song until signaled to stop. Jane herself only needed to cheerily wave a sign, or perhaps dance around like a maniac if she felt like going above and beyond. She usually didn't.
Tension hums through the crowd, a wary anticipation prickling beneath the energy of large numbers of people herded into close quarters. It's mostly freshmen padding out the throng of spectators, having arrived earlier that week for orientation. They're drifting about in nervous packs, hopped up on sugar and homesickness and the excitement of the crowd. The rest are a mix of older students who've trickled onto campus early and the school's staff.
Jane eyes the empty gravel road, baking in the summer heat. Information has been thin on the ground. Jane had heard a dozen conflicting stories since breakfast, and nobody even intentionally speaks to her. Within the space of five minutes, she'd heard that the Barrier surrounding the Isle of the Lost had shattered (Jane doubted this one, given the lack of fires and evil cackling), that aliens had visited key members of the government overnight and demanded the dissolution of the island prison, and that Prince Benjamin had fallen madly in love with a villain's child and decided to risk all their lives by inviting them to Auradon. Wild stories.
Only one detail, with the bona fides of having been pasted up overnight on the school's announcements board, surfaced over and over again—four children of the original villains sentenced to the Isle of the Lost had been invited to attend Auradon Preparatory Academy. And they were due to arrive just about…now.
As if on cue, an engine rumbles further up the road, hidden by the curve of the street. Jane's heart hammers in her chest as a sleek black limousine pulls smoothly up the drive. The conductor lifts his baton, a thin flicker at the corner of Jane's eye, and the band belatedly lurches into a rendition of the school song. Who had been chosen? What would they be like? Lots of villains had magical powers, or tools, or knowledge. Could one of the kids invited to Auradon be like…Jane?
Prince Benjamin and Princess Audrey stood at the base of the stairway leading up to the school doors with Jane's mother, the headmistress, hovering anxiously behind them. The clamor of the music and the frantic waving of miniature Auradonian flags deafens Jane's senses. The beginning of a headache pulses behind her eyes.
The car rolls to a gentle stop in front of the welcoming committee. There's no time for the anxiety of the crowd to spike—almost immediately, the door of the limousine cracks open. It's dark inside, of course. Pitch black. That's how shadows work. It's a bright day, dazzling sunlight reflecting off the white stone, so of course they can't see a hint of the kids inside. The single scrap of cloud in the cheery blue sky takes that moment to drift over the sun, plunging the courtyard into gray shadow.
Thinking back to this moment later, Jane won't be able to recall whatever it was that prompted the cold swell of terror in her gut. The air presses down with a sudden weight, muffling the noise of the crowd like a hand clapped over the mouth of a sudden scream. The music crashes to a confused halt, the trumpets tapering off like a question mark. Jane drops her handmade sign from nerveless hands.
The crunch of gravel beneath a heavy boot somehow makes it to Jane's ears. The crowd is dead quiet. The waving flags are still. One, two, three, four villains slide from the car, oozing out like black oil, bright jackets gleaming like slick iridescence. Their eyes cut across the crowd, knife-sharp and roving. Jane, frozen, breathless, can only stare at them like the dizzying drop off the edge of a cliff.
They're wrong. Infected, like rot. Jane's stomach turns, bile stinging her throat. Prince Benjamin is speaking (how long had he been speaking?), his face pale, valiantly pressing forward with his planned speech even though it'd rapidly become obvious that the villains were beyond saving. Jane admired his determination, truly, but they needed to go back to the Isle. Right now.
"...the day our two peoples began to heal!"
Prince Benjamin speaks with the trained voice of a professional public speaker, his words carrying across the (muffled, stilled, crushed) noise of the crowd into Jane's ears. She can't make out the response of the—girl, purple hair, short—villain, but she sees the derisive tilt to her features, disdain rolling off her in a palpable wave. Prince Benjamin and Princess Audrey respond with strained laughter.
Jane's mother steps forward, and the predatory attention of the villains snaps directly to her like raw meat dumped into a lion's cage. Jane's blood runs cold. There is no cage. Her mother doesn't use magic. She doesn't even have her wand. If the villains took that moment to attack her, she'd be defenseless.
Jane watches, motionless, her heart in her throat, waiting for blood to be spilled. Her hands are shaking. The speeches are over and done with; whatever conversation is being had between the villains and Jane's mother is inaudible over the distance and the shifting noise of the crowd.
Jane's mother flings her arms wide in a sweeping gesture. The villains shift simultaneously into aggressive stances. An attack? Sweat trickles down Jane's back. No, no, they're still talking—though Jane is certain it's only a matter of time.
What can Jane do? She's just a girl. Magic sputters in her veins, formless, directionless, useless, and Jane cannot do a single thing but watch.
Prince Benjamin is nodding, an ill cast to the smile on his face, gesturing in welcome towards the doors to the school. No, they're all nodding, beginning to walk up the steps. Towards the school. Towards Jane. Her stomach roils.
Stay away, she thinks. Stay away from me. The closer the party of villains approaches, the sicker Jane feels. The awful pressure builds and builds like steam in a faulty boiler, a breath away from catastrophe. The villains scan the crowd as they walk, sharp eyes searching for weakness. For a split second, dark brown eyes peering out from underneath a shock of white hair lock onto her own. White spots blot out Jane's vision, and she stumbles backwards into the person stationed behind her.
"Sorry, sorry," she mutters, paying no attention to their grumbling complaints, too focused on keeping her breathing steady, her body standing. The doors to the school swing shut, closing with a decisive thud, and the crushing pressure lifts like a balloon with a cut string. Gone. They're gone. The heavy pressure is retreating with every step they take away from Jane, the writhing sickness churning in her stomach calming with it.
Villains. In her school. All year. Jane wipes the clammy sweat from her brow. She can only hope they stay well away from her.