o2 | wildfire (part one)

ARCHER'S FALL FROM GRACE HEADLINES the new school year. From when the clock strikes eight and KCA comes to life, everybody knows that Archer Finley is no longer an IP.

Rumours swim around in the hundreds, but Rebel doesn't comment on common affairs and Archer doesn't care, leaving the rest of the school in speculation about what happened that night. With the Witches and IPs keeping schtum, there's no one around to confirm.

Of course, I know, but I've been instructed to keep my lips sewn shut.

Rebel reiterates the rule to me as she has her legs crossed on the tabletop, picking off what's left of the weekend's jet-black nail polish. Despite being a school of expressive arts, King City Academy has enforced its rules on 'distractions' and even Rebel has to listen occasionally.

There are some rules she still won't follow, though, like how her skirt has ridden up, rolled up three times beneath her shirt, exposing her thick thighs under nylon tights, navy instead of black.

Three rings adorn her fingers, and the one on her thumb goes with my own, a singular band around my ring finger with a pair of angel wings on it. Hers is similar but encrusted with devil's horns: a blaze of her personality. She's dark and brooding and dangerous, and while my own 'good girl' act is suffocating, it's the law of the jungle. If she doesn't see me as a threat, I'll survive.

It's a privilege to get some alone time with her, in one of the unused classrooms in the Northeast wing. It used to be just the East wing, but since KCA got refurbished, it has fallen into abandonment, leaving a whole building full of empty rooms where we can get up to what we like.

It's a secret among the upper years, but for now, it gets haunted in every spare moment. Firsters don't arrive until next week, which is when the initiation program will begin. Traditionally, King City Saturday Nights are there to make or break the first years. Witches keep their eyes out, for the best dancers and strongest drinkers, for anyone they see a bit of themselves in. The dream for any Witch is to find someone else who carries a little bit of Witch in their blood; someone who can hold their head high and walk with confidence, carry themselves with grace and tear down anyone who stands in their way.

For now, we're still in the preparation period, but scouting for rooms has turned into Rebel rattling on about her rejection and plaiting my hair for me since my own had turned dishevelled from the wind and rain.

Time ticks on quickly, and my heart sinks as the clock reads twenty-to-nine. "I have to go," I announce, grasping my bag by the handle and hoisting it onto my shoulder.

"What do you have?" Rebel asks, reapplying her mascara with a flourish.

"Specials," I say, but my voice has become significantly quieter. Being the only Witch in Archer's block, it's no surprise I have my lesson with him, but the fact it's our Art period stings her, I can tell. Rebel has never been rejected, and certainly not for something as worthless to her as pencil marks on paper. To me.

I could tell her art is worth more than she thinks, but I hold my tongue. Her specialism is as a dancer, and her language is different from mine. It's only natural that she doesn't understand, and I don't want to explain it to her. She doesn't like being wrong.

"Right." She purses her lips. "Have fun, and remember not to interact with Archer"—she coats his name with disdain—"because we have reputations, Ivory. Don't ruin that."

I nod and agree, fiddling with the pleats of my school skirt. It's just a blessing she hasn't mentioned what happened at the party. I've never experienced Rebel's wrath firsthand, but second hand experience tells me it's not as pretty as she could make it seem.

"Right. See you later." I force a smile, flicking one of my plaits behind my head. Double Dutch, like always, because wild and untamed is her thing, not mine.

"Bye," she drawls after me, and it almost seems like she's waiting with bated breath.

As the door slams shut behind me, my bag swings against my hip. Even though lessons are starting, the hallways are empty, and I know it's because most of the year cleared out long before, not wanting to be caught in a forbidden area.

When I approach the main sector, the hallways begin to litter with students. Specials Art is held underground, and I take the staircase instead of the lift, which is currently housing at least six more students than it's supposed to.

Fluorescent lights cast white beams across the unfurnished floor and low ceiling of the art room—a wide expanse of small rows of desks and easels and little else to speak of. The room is atmospheric, with shadows crawling along the walls and a collage of posters decorating one wall.

Empty, except for one boy scribbling furiously on the same sketchbook from the party.

Archer Finley glances up when he sees me. I match his gaze and he casts it away, tearing down the page and starting on a new drawing.

He doesn't say anything, which makes my job easier. I slide into a seat in the opposite column of desks, keeping my distance, while also keeping towards the back. The front is begging for attention, and it's better for me to keep out of the public eye.

Rebel might not have mentioned Archer and I, but other people were at that party—including the full set of Witches and IPs—and if I'm at the front, it makes it easier for people to talk behind my back. Talk about the boy who got kicked out of there this weekend, and what I had to do with it.

Everyone filters in, all faces I recognise from last year, whether they were in my block or the other one. They flock into seats all around mine, and amidst the chaos, a paper plane lands on my desk.

Suspicious, I unfold it with careful fingers, smoothing the paper out on the desk beside my own sketchbook. That's why the paper feels familiar. It's sketchbook paper.

The drawing is of a girl. Smooth curls, filled in with a hazy grey, coil down to her back, and her lips and eyes are dark and passionate. Two hands clasp jail bars, a ring on each hand, and nails coloured so dark they appear almost black in the greyscaled sketch. Her gaze is pleading and harrowed, her eyebrows knitted together, her mouth forming an o, forming, please.

Trapped behind bars, each one etched with a letter. Spelling out REBEL in bold capitals.

But they aren't ordinary bars.

It takes me a while, but I soon notice each one's straight uniformity and light shading, until the point where a rectangle or half is cut from the bar, scrawled in black. Drawn to resemble piano keys, and a pang hits me.

The bars are made of ivory.

Only one person draws like this.

I cast a glance at Archer Finley, even though he's just Archer now; even though he's irrelevant.

Relevant or not, he has something to say, and I seem to have received part of the message.

Even so, he doesn't look up. Almost like he hasn't noticed me at all.

☆☆☆