To Crywolf178, if you're still reading: No, this story will not contain any lemons. It's rated T, not M. I don't write lemons, in large part because I don't know how to. Thank you for the feedback, though.

I included references to a furry webcomic, a Disney song I used as a vocal stim many times as a small child, and an ancient Persian method of execution in this chapter. Let's see if you can spot these references - if you do, you get some homemade cranberry cookies. Okay, not really. But still, see if you can spot them. Enjoy!

Current music: Lisztomania - Phoenix

The following morning, I was awoken abruptly by a tap on the shoulder.

"Five more minutes" I mouthed. The precise details of my dream were hardly memorable; on some level, though, I knew it had been a pleasant one.

"I'm afraid not," Skipper remarked. "It's not wise to be late for your first day of school."

I groaned. "Why do I need to go to school?"

Opening my eyes, I saw that Skipper was rolling his own peepers. He snorted, and then this is what he said:

"Some things just shouldn't be questioned. Do I really need to remind you why education is essential?"

"No," I insisted. "I'll get up. It's just…it was hard to sleep last night, you know? And I don't feel very well-rested."

This was true, at least to some extent. Even after closing my eyes and finding a comfortable position on the futon, sleep had been elusive. It didn't help that it was still light outside the windows, and the dark curtains we were provided only did so much to correct my circadian rhythm.

"Well, whether you're rested or not, you have to go to school" Skipper muttered. "I'd imagine you'll feel more awake once you're in the classroom."

I didn't have the heart to inform Skipper that the opposite was far more likely. So I paid lip service, nodded along, and got out of bed.

After brushing my fangs (a rather difficult task for someone used to having straight teeth), I saw that Angela had prepared breakfast for us already.

"Is that French toast?" I remarked, noticing a few buttery slices of fresh-baked bread that seemed to have been marinated in egg batter.

Angela frowned. "We call it Kalos toast down here."

"Right" I responded, blushing at my mistake. "Of course, my bad."

"Don't worry about it. Enjoy your breakfast, and I hope your first day of school goes well."

"Thanks," I muttered.

While Skipper and I ate our delicious breakfast, Angela stood over us as though watching constantly for any sign of choking. I suppose some mothers were like that, though I only had limited experience with my own.

"So where is the school?" I asked Skipper. "Is it a long walk from here?"

"It's just through the rainforest," my friend replied. "You can't see it too well from the village, but once you're there there's no missing it. It's one of the grandest buildings in all of Wildebush."

"Noted."

"We'll go to the office and explain that you're new," Skipper continued. "They'll hand you your schedule - math, science, geography, history, language arts, the usual stuff. And there's also a lunch break after the fourth period."

"Right."

Skipper stared at me a moment later. "You seem nervous," he said.

"Maybe I am," I admitted. Though I shouldn't tell you the reason why.

"There's nothing to worry about," Skipper insisted. "All of us had our first day at school once. Most of us turned out okay, didn't we?"

"Well yeah," I replied, "but they were never the new kid. At least, most of them weren't."

Skipper sighed. "I suppose I'll grant that."

The true reason, of course, was one I didn't feel comfortable telling Skipper. You see, the only school I'd ever attended was within the confines of the Sacred Heart Institute. As much as I (and most of the other students there) felt trapped, none of us were bullied for being different, because all of us were different from most people.

But such a difference, the sort of thing referred to as "neurodiversity", paled in comparison to another factor that distinguished me from the rest of Wildebush. Such a secret would be unthinkable to share with anyone but Mayor Ammy.

I still can't believe I met the mayor on my first day here. That was insane.

Anyway, once we'd finished eating, we helped Angela with the dishes. This was one thing I'd never had to do growing up, but I was hardly going to voice any objection to it. It was just part of being a courteous guest.

"Hey, do you have a backpack?" Angela asked me when we were done.

I narrowed my eyes. "I just got here - of course I don't have a backpack."

"I'm sure there's a spare you can find in the lost and found section" she replied. "If not, there's a school supply aisle at the marketplace."

"Noted."

The blue Charizard gave me a smile. "Hey. It'll be okay. School is nothing to fear. If anything they'll see you as special - you're new, and your fur is white."

She did not understand - being special was what made me dread school the most.

"In any case, you shouldn't be late for school. Skipper will show you the way there."

It might have been morning, but as soon as I stepped outside, I was greeted by the baking sun. I swear, it must have been at least in the mid-eighties, and the humidity didn't help matters at all. Needless to say, I was very grateful when the path took us through the shade.

Along the way, we saw more dragons converging on the trail - mostly Charmander, but there were some Charizard as well. Most of them carried backpacks, which was hardly a surprise.

After about ten or fifteen minutes, we reached a clearing, and then I saw it.

Skipper hadn't been kidding when he said that the school building was one of the more impressive structures in the village. It was three stories tall and could have easily fit an American football field inside it. The sign above the doorway labeled it as WILDEBUSH CENTRAL SCHOOL. A flagpole stood just outside, taller than the nearby building, and in the light breeze flew a flag containing a yellow disk on a sky blue triangle, as well as two bands of navy blue and crimson red.

"Is that the flag of Wildebush?" I asked, to which Skipper nodded.

"We here are very…proud of our village symbols" he whispered. "You could even say that we're patriotic."

Trust me, I know what that sort of "patriotism" looks like. I'm used to it back home.

"So what now?" I wondered aloud, not caring how dumb I might sound. I'd honestly forgotten, fascinated as I was by the flag.

"We go to the front office and register you as a student here. I'll come with you."

"Right."

Luckily, the front office wasn't far from the school's entrance. The Charizard behind the desk, whom I assumed was the secretary, looked taken aback at the sight of me, but she didn't question Skipper's explanation as to why I was there.

"No problem" she said, typing a few things into her very primitive-looking computer. "Though I'll be honest - you two should have gotten here a few minutes earlier so that you weren't late for class."

"Sorry about that" I mumbled.

"Hey, don't be sorry - it's your grade."

In the absence of a clever response to that, I bit my lip and resolved to avoid getting into such situations in the future. That's the point of mistakes, of course - you learn from them and try not to repeat your errors.

After that, I consulted my schedule and compared it to Skipper's. We had only one class together today, which was…

"Gym." I mouthed, trying not to let my voice shake too audibly.

"What's wrong with Gym?" Skipper asked. "Isn't it a welcome break from all that sitting still in class?"

For all the explaining Skipper had done on my behalf, I didn't have the heart to inform him that although I was frequently one to rock back and forth or doodle in the classroom, gym class was hell on Earth for me. (Well, I guess now it would be hell in Earth.) When I wanted energy, I didn't have the right kind of energy, and when I wanted to sit still, I couldn't.

"Nothing," I responded. "It's okay. I'll be okay."

Skipper nodded. "If you say so."

With that, I bade my new friend farewell and made my way to my first period class. The room number was written on my schedule, so it was just a matter of recalling that the numbering scheme was universal to almost all school buildings (or buildings in general): The first digit was always the floor, so Room 671, if it had existed, would be on the sixth floor.

When I turned up in Language Arts several minutes late, I made eye contact with the silver Charizard lady who appeared to teach it. "Hello, Miss…" I started sheepishly. "Sorry I'm late."

The silver Charizard did not look up from the class roster. "Weldworth…present. Yoko…present. Zev…present. Is there anyone else I didn't mention?"

I raised my paw. "Me, ma'am."

The teacher frowned, sticking her tongue slightly out at me. "What might your name be?"

"Barrett," I muttered. "I'm new."

"I can tell!" the teacher exclaimed exasperatedly. "My name is Flora, and I'm the high school Language Arts instructor here at Wildebush Central. I presume you've already enrolled?"

I nodded gingerly.

"Very well. In that case, take a seat at the empty desk, and we will get started. Next time, please don't be late."

The only remaining desk was in the furthest corner of the room, from which the sun would beam right in, making it hard to see the front without squinting. It was no wonder it'd been the last one selected!

So I took my seat, and then Flora began her lecture. We'd allegedly been supposed to read the first four chapters of Ghost Ship of Cannibal Rattatas, but if you'd told me a week prior that the book existed, I'd have yelled at you to put down Hunter's crack pipe.

As you could imagine, I felt completely lost. All students know the feeling of having forgotten that there was homework for the upcoming class, only to arrive at said class realizing everyone else read the freaking directions, and you didn't. So you frantically try to scribble down answers to whatever questions you can, hoping against hope the teacher will still accept it and that your answers will be right.

Of course, this time it wasn't my fault, but it still sucked.

Another thing that sucked was Flora's voice. After ten minutes of it, the knot of nerves in my stomach had been untangled. After another ten, I yawned, and when thirty minutes, a full half hour, had gone by, my eyelids were getting genuinely heavy.

That silver Charizard could not make anything sound interesting to save her life. Maybe the novel was thrilling, but it didn't matter if we were discussing a graphic novel full of superheroes and explosions; it would still have been akin to Pride and Prejudice.

When class ended after an hour of this ennui, I was only too relieved to be doing something different, even if that "something different" was another class.

Mathematics was more pleasant. The instructor, a navy blue Charizard named Katt, wore what seemed like an eternal smile, and she even chuckled whenever she engaged in the refrain of "numbers are your friends."

That might sound corny, but over the course of that hour, I increasingly believed she was onto something. Unlike literature, which was very much a product of its time and context, math was far more concrete. You always knew when you had the right answer; like a good friend, numbers would never deceive you.

The minutes flew by, and then it was time for third period - Social Studies. And oh boy, it was a doozy.

You see, in this case the teacher was a cyan Charizard who went by the name Trace. Whether that was his real name or just a nickname, I wasn't sure I wanted to know. Soon enough, I didn't care, for when class began, that question would be the least of my worries.

Trace went on and on about the various countries on the surface of our planet. He mentioned Russia, the United Kingdom, and of course, my own United States. During this time, I fervently hoped (and maybe even prayed) that he wouldn't call on me. In my experience, paying attention and not doodling, so that you wouldn't attract any extra attention, was the best way to accomplish this.

In hindsight, even if I had been drawing, I doubt Trace would have bothered to call on me. Quite frankly, other students appeared to be getting away with far more. A few were passing notes and giggling in the rows behind me, and I had ample time and brain power to wonder if they were laughing about my presence.

Since when did that become funny, anyway?

As Trace kept talking about the disadvantages of being a landlocked country without access to the sea, I counted down the minutes until I'd be free from his room. When those magic digits finally appeared on the clock, I was very happy to be done with Social Studies.

I was not, however, happy to begin Gym class.

Sure, it was the only class I had with Skipper. And on some level, it would be nice to use all the pent-up energy that had collected within my veins. But there was just one problem.

You see, the sort of energy I'd been cursed with in the classroom was not transferable to being good at athletics. For all the movement I'd engaged in when I was meant to sit criss-cross applesauce on the floor, I could never catch a fly ball or make a basket. My body wasn't coordinated for that.

So it was with a pounding heart that I reunited with Skipper. He'd just finished his Science class and appeared as though he couldn't wait to frolic around in the gym. I wished I could have shared his enthusiasm.

"The gym takes up about half the building," Skipper told me. "As far as physical education goes, money is no object here."

I asked Skipper what we'd be doing in Gym class, to which he shrugged.

"There's no way to know. Sometimes it's basketball, sometimes bowling. Bowling is always funny, because if we get a gutter ball we're supposed to shout fiddlesticks instead of…other words you might rather shout."

I wanted to laugh at that. I really did. But my current mood wouldn't permit laughter.

"Hey," Skipper assured me. "It'll be okay. We all learned to walk once, and we all learned to catch a ball."

Not me, Skipper. Not me.

At first, my heart leaped when I saw that the gym's floor was lined not with linoleum, but rather with giant trampoline mats. I wanted to jump for joy, because leaping up and down on a trampoline sounded like the best way to loosen up. For a moment, I might have been like a kid on their birthday at SkyZone.

So, you might ask, what's the catch?

Well, I was wondering that too, but I didn't have to wonder for long, because a nearby black Charizard blew his whistle.

"Good day, everyone!" the Charizard announced. "As you all know, my name is Zen, and today we're playing trampoline dodgeball!"

Trampoline…dodgeball?

As soon as I saw the foam balls in the middle of the field, I knew that I hadn't seen the full picture. And I was about to pay the price for having hope - namely, disappointment.

Zen blew his whistle again, then clarified how the teams would be divided.

"I will count you off in twos. The team names are 'Shirts' and 'Skins.' Don't worry, I'm not trying to make the out-of-shape dragons feel ashamed of themselves; these names are strictly for identification purposes."

Sure, dude. Sure.

Zen pointed at the first dragon. "Milo?"

"Shirts."

"Bandit?"

"Skins."

"Donner?"

"Shirts."

"Blitzen?"

"Skins."

It went on and on, for there were a couple dozen dragons in line. But assuming I could do basic math correctly, I was fairly certain Skipper and I would be on the same team. I wasn't sure if that would be a good thing or not.

"Skipper?"

"Skins."

"Damasen?"

"Shirts."

"You?" Zen asked, pointing directly at me.

I gulped. "My name is Barrett," I said weakly.

"And you are on Team…?"

"Skins" I replied, trying to resist the urge to sigh.

"Correct. Donnelly?"

Finally, the teams were determined. Zen explained that those players who were eliminated (either via getting hit or throwing a ball that got caught) would have to stand at the back of the other team's side. They would be able to reenter the game if they caught a stray ball from the other side. In other words, as soon as I was in jail, it would be a life sentence without the possibility of parole. Additionally, we weren't allowed to fly for any purpose, not that this meant anything for me.

The teams assembled on their respective sides of the trampoline court, then Zen counted us in.

"On your mark…get set…fuzzy pickles!"

One of the other dragons on Team Skins stepped forward, at which point the teacher called him out.

"No, no, no, false start!" Zen exclaimed. "Ben! Out of the game!"

Ben, a yellow Charmander, lowered his head in shame as he staggered off the court. We were down one already before the game had even started.

"Okay, let's get a true start this time! On your mark…get set…GO!"

We were all off, bouncing our way to the central line of the court that contained the numerous foam balls we'd attempt to hit each other with.

Despite the dread I'd experienced upon learning that we were in fact playing dodgeball, I couldn't help but feel thrilled whenever my paws hit the trampoline's surface. In a way, I might have been back at that sensory room, one of the few happy places at the Institute.

Of course, it had been a while since I'd done this as a human, let alone as a Charmander, so I was among the last to reach the middle of the court. By that time, the balls had already been claimed.

All I can do is evade.

Well, that only worked out so well. It seemed there were about twenty players on each team (well, nineteen on Team Skins after Ben's false start). As it turned out, this initial deficit was already causing problems.

It wasn't long before a half dozen players on my team, including the one I thought had been called Blitzen, had been eliminated and sent to jail at the other end of the court. By contrast, only one player from Team Shirts stood behind us, anxiously angling to catch a ball so that she'd be allowed back into the game.

"Come on, Barrett!" Skipper exclaimed. "Do something!"

But I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. A couple balls were on our side of the court, yes, but I couldn't grab them without risking elimination. But wait, you might ask me. Isn't that the whole point of dodgeball?

Well, yes, it is. But at that moment, all I knew was that once I was out, that was it. Again, I couldn't catch a stray ball to save my life.

As the number of players on the opposing team slowly dwindled (and the number on my team plummeted precipitously), it wasn't long before it became clear we had to play more aggressively. Eventually, there were only five players on Team Skins, with the other fourteen in jail.

By this time, even with the extra energy stimulated by, well, getting to stim, I was starting to flag. The adrenaline had to kick in, or else my team was done.

I found myself near the back of my side next to Skipper. The cerulean Charmander's expression was nothing remotely resembling fun and games. Right then, he might as well have been a no-nonsense drill sergeant like Zen the PE teacher.

"Barrett," he told me, "I'm going to throw a few balls and hope the players on the other side catch them."

"That's pretty risky," I muttered, dodging a headshot by about two inches. "Can you really throw that far?"

Skipper's eyes glinted with determination. "I don't know," he replied. "But now's a good time to find out."

He was right, of course. We were still outnumbered more than two to one, and if we did nothing, we would soon lose.

So Skipper bounded closer to the line, then arced his arm so far backward I half-expected it to fall out of socket. Then, with what looked like all his might, he lobbed that ball in a rainbow-shaped arc toward jail on the other side.

Well, the first ball was the dodgeball equivalent of a pop fly in baseball. Nobody was able to catch it, and a red Charmander (I think his name was Fuego) fell over in the attempt, nearly knocking over a purple Charmander like a bowling pin.

"Shit" Skipper muttered. "That didn't go as planned."

Skipper then threw another ball as I bounced up and down, dodging balls thrown left and right. Of course, I could hardly stay in one position - a moving target was always more difficult to take advantage of.

This throw looked a lot more promising. The ball flew through the air, high above any possibility of being caught…or so it seemed.

One of the Charmander on the other team, a magenta male, sprang further upward than should have been possible, did a pirouette in midair, and caught the ball before falling to the ground.

"Fuckin' A!" Skipper yelled. "That's not fair! Avian flew!"

Zen blew his whistle. "Time out!" he announced. "Everybody, stay where you are!"

The PE teacher bounced onto the field, standing midway between Skipper and Avian in an effort to resolve the dispute. Even though my sense of sound felt keener than it had been when I was human, I couldn't make out exactly what was being said. Whatever it was, though, neither party seemed happy.

"All right, all right, all right!" Zen exclaimed. "Both Avian of Team Shirts and Skipper of Team Skins here will be eliminated from the game. Avian violated the rules by spreading his wings, as it were, whereas Skipper will be eliminated due to dropping an F-bomb."

"That's not fair!" Skipper complained. "Isn't it natural to curse when the rules are broken and it screws you over?"

Zen appeared stone-faced, so angry he didn't know how to express it. He could not punish the cerulean Charmander any further - the Gym teacher's highest authority was to eject Skipper from the game. But it was plain to see that Zen wanted to do something more than that.

Avian, too, looked pissed, but to a lesser extent. Since Team Shirts were well ahead of us before Skipper's play, and had essentially traded one of their own for one of us, they'd come out on top. Now there were only four players left on Team Skins, and I was one of them. The fate of the world rested squarely on my shoulders. (Okay, not really, but it sure felt that way.)

It was do or die, and to make a long story short, we did not "do." The game ended quickly thereafter when Team Skins was reduced to two players, I got hit by a random ball, and then the Hail Mary throw by one of my teammates was intercepted in midair.

Team Shirts had won the game - indeed, "won" is putting it mildly. The ten remaining players on their side all jumped up and down in celebration, whereas we on Team Skins jumped up and down for a different reason: We were made to do jumping jacks as punishment for losing.

Following the heavy defeat in the dodgeball game, it was time for lunch. Perhaps the meal would provide me a chance to lick my wounds.

Once I'd received my tray of food, I selected a table off to the side where I wasn't likely to be joined by anyone else. I then started wolfing down my food like, well, an animal.

"Unlikely", however, isn't the same as "impossible", and when I was halfway through my meal, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" Skipper asked me. "Most of the other tables are full."

"Go right ahead," I muttered morosely.

"Look, Barrett," Skipper said. "Bad things happen to all of us. In the grand scheme of things, losing at dodgeball isn't the end of the world."

"It's not just that we lost, though" I replied, avoiding the urge to cry. "We got obliterated."

"Again, nobody will remember this a week from now. Or at least, they won't care about it. There's always tomorrow."

How could I possibly explain that I felt as though I'd let my team down? I'd barely even been playing, so scared was I to take a risk and chuck balls at my opponents. (You know, the whole objective of the game!)

Instead of sobbing or responding, I just stared at my half-eaten tray glumly before consuming the rest of my food far more slowly. Skipper did not speak either during this time, apparently respecting my desire to be left this, it was with a heavy heart that I made my way to my fifth period class, Science.

The first thing I noticed was that, unlike the other teachers, the Science instructor wore an article of clothing - a lab coat. Said instructor was a brown Charizard who appeared to size all of us up methodically as we entered the room.

"Good afternoon, class" the instructor announced in a tone whose gender I could not place. "I see we have a new arrival."

I gulped. After the dodgeball disaster, I would have been very happy to sink into the ground and vanish, but there was no deeper place to sink.

"Not to worry, your name is already on the rolls" the brown Charizard announced after clearing their throat. "My name is Natani."

"Natani" I echoed in less than a whisper, trying the word out on my tongue. That's a pretty cool name.

"Now, class…we are going to talk about the Periodic Table of basic elements today. Who can tell me what an ion has to do with the atomic number of an element?"

Oh, shit. It's chemistry.

Back at the Institute, Chemistry had been the bane of my existence even in a place where grades didn't matter. If I had to pass an exam about which element had which degree of atomic mass, you might as well give me an F preemptively, because there's no way I could prove you wrong.

To their credit, Natani tried to make it fun. They sang a song about the elements that was to the tune of some children's tune I'd heard long ago. However, as far as I was concerned, it was only a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down as opposed to anything I actually enjoyed.

Make no mistake: I knew I was in the home stretch. Just one more class, and then I could go back to Skipper's house and put school behind me for an hour or two. Then I'd have to start chiseling away at the homework I'd been set, but I could worry about that in the magical land of later.

My final class of the day was History. The moment I met the eye of the teacher, a yellow Charizard this time, I knew I was in for quite an event. The way the man's eye twitched when he saw me screamed, 'fresh blood!'

He introduced himself as Keith Charizard, then began his lecture.

The lecture was essentially the history equivalent of one of those medical drama TV shows: It was desperately dull, but you'd occasionally cringe or grimace at the description of some gruesome event. (Okay, occasionally is the wrong word here; often is better.)

For that was Keith's teaching style in a nutshell. As he discussed the wars that had transpired within the various factions of the inner world, the instructor was all too eager to dwell on the gorier details of the battles. Even when the class wrinkled their noses, picturing the sight of some of the medieval punishments, Keith had no filter.

"You see, relative to those on the surface, we in the inner world are far more humane. Our worst criminals might be given harsh penalties, but they're our worst criminals. We have nothing like the milk-and-honey treatment inflicted upon Mithridates of Persia."

Keith then went on to describe precisely what the milk-and-honey treatment entailed. While I will spare you the worst details, our teacher did not spare us, and by the end of the lecture I was tempted to go vegan for life.

At the end of sixth period we shuffled out of the classroom like prisoners of war, a few of us clutching our stomachs. I fervently wished Keith had considered that we'd just had lunch less than two hours ago, but it's not like we had a choice but to suffer what we must. ("The weak will suffer what they must" was another of Keith's favorite sayings.)

"You look nauseous" were Skipper's first words upon seeing me outside the schoolhouse.

"I've been better," I admitted, burping audibly.

Skipper gestured at a nearby trash can. "If you need to puke, do it there."

I shook my head. "I'll be fine."

"Look, Barrett, Keith's History class takes some getting used to. But it's just like a virus - after you're exposed to it, you'll become immune. Just like everything else in life. You know what they say about whatever doesn't kill you."

"Right," I muttered. If it doesn't kill you.

We stood together in the schoolyard, me glancing up at the flag still gently waving in the wind. It occurred to me that I should ask Skipper what it meant, so I did.

"Well, the yellow disk on the light blue triangle represents the Second Sun in the inner sky. It's what gives us life, after all."

And it might give me hell if I stand out here much longer.

"And then the blue stripe is on top when we're at peace, and it's flipped to have red up top when we're at war" Skipper explained.

"Huh," I replied. "So we're at peace now?"

"Yes."

For how long? Of course, Keith would probably like a war to start soon - he wants more gory battles to write about.

"Anyway," Skipper continued, "let's go home. Would you like an after-school snack? I can make some pretty good cranberry cookies with honey, and we can wash those down with a nice glass of milk."

I gulped. "I'll pass."