To the casual observer, Winsbury Place might have seemed like any other residential block. On closer inspection of the modest facade of converted Georgian townhouses, however, the observer might just notice the simple brass plaque aside the front door that read “The Winsbury School of Parapsychology.”

Jessa cautiously approached her new school, letting the quick-stepping and going-places adults zip past her with their newspapers and morning beverages in disposable cups. Older students took advantage of the remaining fifteen minutes before the first bell, lingering in groups on the pavement, or opposite the school in Winsbury Square Park.

Jessa felt a gross flutter in her stomach, and a brush of air as others hurried past her in the foyer. A middle-aged lady teetered over and thrust her round red face close to Jessa’s.

“First year?” she squawked. Her breath smelled like coffee.

“Yes, miss.”

“Wonderful! Welcome!” Her dangly earrings bobbed around as she spoke. “My name’s Mrs Hoopey, and I’m the deputy headteacher. We’re so very thrilled to welcome you to Winsbury. Here’s your welcome pack. Trot along to the cafeteria, now. Help yourself to a snack and a drink, and settle down to make some wonderful new friends and some fabulous memories.”

An involuntary gulp caught in Jessa’s throat at the mention of new friends. She was the only parapsych from her middle school who had been accepted to Winsbury, and she was immediately envious of her old friends starting at high school together.

A long table in the cafeteria was already surrounded by about twenty students, each with a matching binder before them. The table was book-ended by decorative purple and gold balloon displays. Winsbury colours, Jessa had learned at the Open Evening, when she’d visited with her parents and been shown around by the captain of the Winsbury football team, who had thoroughly bored Jessa with his many tales of the inter-school football league final and “the power of purple and gold.” Winsbury had won, 4-0.

Jessa eyed a seat next to a small blonde girl. Almost everyone else at the table was deeply engaged in the artless chatter of teenagers meeting each other for the first time, but the blonde girl had empty seats either side of her and her face bore down into a book.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” said Jessa.

The girl’s face lit with a grateful and welcoming smile.

“No, please do. I’m Maggie. Nice to meet you,” she offered her hand hesitantly.

“Jessa,” she responded with a courteous shake. “What are you reading?”

“The Call of the Wild by Jack London. Have you read it?”

“Nope.”

“What do you like to read?”

“Do you know a magazine called Loud!?”

“My brother reads it. It’s about bands and stuff, right?”

“Yeah. That’s mainly what I read.”

“Cool. Well, I can lend this to you when I’ve finished, if you like.”

Before Jessa had time to reply, a tall, pale, stern-faced woman entered the room and forced them all into silence without even saying a word. Jessa found herself sitting taut and upright, and noticed Maggie doing the same. Mrs Hoopey shuffled into the room alongside the other woman, and stood in front to announce her to the group, but Jessa remembered her from the welcome assembly at the Open Evening. She mostly remembered that she’d found the headteacher thoroughly frightening, and now, seeing her up close, even more so.

“Young ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the headteacher of Winsbury, Dr Mortlock.” Mrs Hoopey pulled out a chair for Dr Mortlock, who came forward and stood before the first-years’ staring faces.

“Good morning, students,” she said without emotion.

“Good morning, Dr Mortlock,” they responded together, polite, nervous and monotone.

Jessa wondered Dr Mortlock’s age, but it was hard to tell. Her initial appearance was austere and cold. Militant, even. In her pristine black suit and turtle-neck, she was smart but categorically old-fashioned. It wasn’t until a slight smile crept onto her face that a gentle softness came upon her.

“Welcome, and congratulations on your acceptance to the Winsbury School of Parapsychology. I’m sure you heard of Winsbury a long time ago and have known of our reputation, but now that you can see just how few first-years we admit, I hope you can fully appreciate how selective we are. Admittance to Winsbury is a great honour, and you should be very proud.”

Jessa cast her mind back to the written test. She’d left the testing room feeling dismayed at her performance, so much so that she’d been convinced at first that her acceptance letter from Winsbury must have been a mistake.

“We analysed you all by your written exams, parapsychological aptitude tests, and your personal interviews, and in the twenty-six of you, we discovered something special that we’d like to nurture.”

Jessa looked around the table and wondered how everyone else had done in the testing. Did she have the lowest grade of everyone there? Jessa Baxter was a mostly B or C student. She started racking her mind trying to remember if she’d ever been given an A in school. She did recall receiving some gold stars in playgroup, but she doubted that such high praise for correctly naming colours would be given at the Winsbury School of Parapsychology. Jessa suddenly felt very much out of her depth.

“We like to hold our first-year orientation here in the cafeteria to provide you with a more informal way in which to interact with your new classmates, and to help you relax into student life here. Please know that while we do hold you all to very high academic criteria, we want you to feel comfortable. We’ve always maintained that students should enjoy their schooling, which is one of the reasons that we have no uniform code. You may use clothing to express yourself as you wish—within reason, of course,” Dr Mortlock cast a critical glance around the table.

“You’ll be split into two form groups, and each group will be assigned one of two tutors. Students with the following names, please pay attention, as you will be in Mr Fletcher’s tutor group: Claire Adams, Sandra Allanberg, Jessamine Baxter, Elijah Cannon, Cecily Graves, Flynn Howard, Annora Huff, Phillip Jackson, Jodie O’Connor, Tonia Pitts, Thomas Stevens, Graham Townsend, and where is my number thirteen?” she trailed off, somehow lacking the final name for the group.

The students sat patiently as Dr Mortlock flipped through a couple of papers, scanning the page for the missing name.

“Aha. Margaret Turner, please make yourself known.”

“Here, miss,” Maggie croaked from Jessa’s side.

“There you are. Number thirteen. Not going to be unlucky, are you?”

Maggie’s face turned bright red under the gawp of everyone at the table.

“I…uh… hope not, miss.”

“Very well. Though I would kindly request that you never again call me “miss.” My name is Dr Mortlock, and I shan’t respond otherwise.”

Maggie looked like she might burst from embarrassment.

“Now,” Dr Mortlock continued, “those of you whose names I didn’t mention, you will be in Mrs Reid’s tutor group. Your tutors will be with you shortly. Until then, feel free to spread out around the room and chat with your comrades. Share stories, and share your abilities. This is the beginning of a very special journey.”

And with that, she stood up and strode from the room. Mrs Hoopey picked up the pile of papers and shuffled off in Dr Mortlock’s wake.

The sound of chatter slowly returned to the room.

“I’m definitely a telekinetic, but I’d love to work on my telepath skills too,” Jessa explained to Maggie as they moved to a quieter part of the cafeteria. “I know it’s pretty rare to be really good at two parabilities, but I’d still like to improve both. There’ve been a few moments where I’ve had a sense connection with someone… what’s that called again?”

“Sensoreading?”

“Maybe. Is that the one where you can feel someone’s emotions?”

“Oh, no, sensoreading is a form of telepathy for actual senses, like smell or hearing. I think what you’re describing is just empathism.”

“Yes, that’s it. Empathism. Thanks. So what about you?”

“I’m an empath too, though my skills are broad at the moment. I don’t really score much higher in one area than another. But I want to be a vet someday, so I’m aiming to study telepathy and healing psychism so I can be a communicari.”

“Awesome. Can you already communicate with animals at all?”

“Not really. I have a dog, but I can’t read him.”

“I heard communicariism is one of the rarest abilities.”

“Yeah, very few people are born with it. But I’ve read that once you have the foundational skills like telepathy and empathism, then communicariism is pretty learnable. My older brother makes fun of me for it, though. He’s a parapsych too but he wants to be an engineer. He thinks communicariism is silly. He calls it ‘fairy science’.”

“That’s mean,” said Jessa. “What do your parents think?”

“They’re totally supportive. They said being a vet is a very respectable career. What do you want to be?”

“I don’t really know,” Jessa shrugged.

“No bother. You have plenty of time to decide.”

“Excuse me,” said a tentative voice. The girls looked up to see a boy standing before them. “Is it okay if I sit with you?”

He waited until they agreed before pulling out a chair for himself as if totally prepared to walk away if they declined his company.

“Yeah, ‘course you can,” said Jessa.

The boy slumped into the chair with a sideways smile. “Thanks. I’m Flynn, by the way. I was at that big table, but that group is, umm… not my kind of people.”

They all looked over at a table where a girl wearing a lot of make-up was showing her classmates a hand-held device. Not only were the people at the table leaning to get a closer look, but other students were standing behind her, bending themselves to glimpse the desirable gadget.

“That’s Cecily Graves,” Flynn told them. “Apparently, her dad just gave her the new Folio smartphone. The one with the gold case.”

“Wow,” said Jessa. “I know they’re cool phones and all, but that is so bloody gaudy. It looks like a disco ball.”

“Spending that much money on a phone is what my mum calls having more money than sense,” said Flynn.

“Most importantly, it’s one hundred percent against the rules to have one in school,” Maggie declared. “It says so right here in the welcome pack,” she flipped through the pages. “Here, on the 'Rules and Regulations' page. It very plainly says that students may bring a personal device to school but it must be handed in at reception in the morning.”

“Yep,” Flynn nodded. “She’s been a student here for half an hour and she’s already breaking the rules. That’s ballsy.”

“Or stupid,” Jessa finished.

The loud clatter of desperate laughter sounded as Cecily played comedy videos on her phone. They looked over just in time to see Cecily mockingly holding her nose and wafting her hand. They couldn’t hear what she was saying, but the girl standing next to Cecily promptly ran from the room, on the verge of tears.

“Yep. Definitely not my kind of people,” Flynn reiterated.

“So Flynn,” Maggie addressed him cordially. “I’m an empath and Jessa here is a telekin. What’s your psych skill?”

“I think I’ll be a telepath,” he said, “though I have a little telekin ability that I’d love to improve.”

“Nice,” said Jessa, “I’m the opposite. When I was younger, all I wanted was to be a telepath, but telekinesis just came more naturally to me.”

“It’s pretty fun,” said Flynn. “My mum helps me practice. Sometimes she’ll think of a song and then I’ll have to try and tune-in to her thoughts and guess the song. I have to be in the exact right mood to do it at all, but hopefully one day I’ll be good. Maybe. I dunno.”

“Wow, that’s super advanced!” Maggie marvelled. “You’re definitely above average for your age.”

Mr Fletcher and Mrs Reid entered the cafeteria together.

“All right, everyone! I’m Mr Fletcher. All of you in my class, gather your things, follow me and get ready for the grand tour.”

Mr Fletcher’s thirteen students scuffled close to him in little steps into the main entrance hallway. Jessa was disappointed to see Cecily Graves in her tutor group.

“Over here we have Mrs Pacey, she’s the school administrator and runs the reception. If you have any scheduling, technological, or attendance issues, she’s the one to speak to.”

Mrs Pacey waved at the students then quickly turned back to her devices. Her fingers ran swiftly and delicately between the glassy computer surfaces and the silvery matte trackpad on the desk in front of her.

Mr Fletcher walked the group down the main hallway and let them poke their heads into the library. Like most of the first-years, Jessa had toured Winsbury before applying, but the facilities seemed even more real and exciting now she was there as a real student. The library was so contemporary compared to the childish one at Jessa’s middle school, which had cartoon animals painted on the walls and ragged, fading books on rickety shelves. Especially for such a small school, the Winsbury library was expansive and full of light streaming in through a wall of windows at the far end that looked out into the school gardens.

Mr Fletcher pointed down the hallway to the left of the library, explaining that this was the way to the gymnasium (a fact that Jessa dismissed somewhat, as she planned to spend as little time as possible in the gymnasium.)

The tour continued up the staircase, to the first floor. The stairway opened to a spacious landing area with a few clusters of squishy-looking beanbag chairs in front of big arched windows.

In the corner of the open space was a wall of ultramodern lockers, each with a small screen next to the handle notch. Every locker had a small light display on the screen, some showing yellow and some green.

“Everyone choose a locker with a green light,” Mr Fletcher instructed, and the thirteen students each stood before the locker of their choice. Jessa, Maggie and Flynn all crouched to the lower, less popular row so they could secure neighbouring lockers.

“Tap the screen once until the light flashes, then hold your index finger on the middle of the screen until it stops flashing. This will be your locker, and only you can open it.”

Each of the lockers flashed with recognition, welcoming their new keepers. Welcome, Baxter, J., Welcome, Turner, M., Welcome, Howard, F.

Mr Fletcher led them to the end of the East Wing corridor, to his personal classroom, their tutor group home for the next four years. The tables each had space for just two students, and Jessa and Maggie immediately chose a table together at the front of the class.

Flynn paused and looked around the room. He was the only one left without a seating partner.

“Here, Flynn, take this one,” Jessa moved across to the next table.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah, definitely. I’m left-handed anyway, so it’s better for me if I sit on this side.”

“Thanks,” he slid into the seat Jessa had vacated.

Flynn copied Maggie and took out a pencil-case and notebook from his bag. The pencil-case was a worn brown leather that reminded Jessa of something her grandfather might have. In fact, many things about Flynn reminded her of someone a lot older; the large over-ear headphones that he clipped to his backpack, his well-worn trainers that looked like they might have been purchased in a supermarket.

Everything about Flynn was a little peculiar.

His dishevelled brown hair was mousy and unstylish by most teenagers’ standards, and with a closer look at his yellow and blue striped polo shirt, Jessa noticed it was a little bobbly and dull around the collar. While everyone else in the class, herself included, was dressed up in the brand-spanking-new, Flynn seemed a little faded among the technicolour.

Maggie and Flynn were both a little odd, Jessa thought, but one thing was certain, and Flynn’s words came back into her mind. Her kind of people.

“Sorry the room is so bare right now,” Mr Fletcher told the class. “I’m new here myself.”

His dark blond hair looked crunchy with gel, and he was much more stylish than any of the other teachers. Plenty of the girls in the class were already swooning.

He handed out lesson schedules and talked through all the day’s announcements, including details of extracurricular clubs and societies. Maggie urgently scribbled down notes, though Jessa couldn’t tell what she could possibly be making notes about.

Mr Fletcher swiped through pages on his netpad, his eyes flitting back and forth over the screen, scanning for any other pertinent information.

“So I think that’s everything I have to tell you. Does anyone have any questions for me?”

“Yeah,” a tanned boy drawled. “Are you a parapsych?”

“Yes,” said Mr Fletcher, “I’m a telekin. But perhaps more importantly, I consider my main attribute to be that I’m a massive Parapsych History nerd. Which means, aside from seeing you every morning for attendance and our PSE sessions on Mondays, you’ll come to me for your weekly Parapsych History lessons, too. And further down the line, maybe we’ll see each other more often if you decide to continue with me at P-Level!”

No response.

“No history buffs, eh?”

Apparently, even Maggie couldn’t admit to being a history buff.

“Fine. Any other questions?”

“How old are you?” asked a girl from the back of the room.

“I don’t think that’s releva—”

“Are you single?” Cecily Graves interrupted him.

“That’s definitely not relevant,” he said quickly and turned around before the students noticed the blush in his cheeks.

Jessa was grateful when the bell rang for lunch. Despite her morning breakfast feast, she was starting to feel a grumble in her stomach.

By the time Jessa, Maggie, and Flynn arrived, the cafeteria was already quite full and loud with the hubbub of post-holiday catch-up, the clinking of cutlery on plates, and hands rustling in crisp packets.

The three of them took their place in the queue and surveyed the food options that shone under the yellow heat lamps.

“What can I get for you lovely young ladies?” said a blithe older woman behind the counter.

“Chicken pie and mash, please,” said Jessa.

“Veggie pie and mash, please,” added Maggie.

“And for you, kiddo?” the server looked over at Flynn.

His eyes searched from tray to tray and label to label. “Umm, nothing for me,” he said, “I don’t really fancy anything. I’ll go and find us a table.”

“Are you sure?” Jessa asked, but he was already walking away toward the cashier, where he quickly picked up just an apple and a bag of cheesy crackers.

“Excuse me,” Jessa turned back to the lady behind the counter, “can I have a cheese and ham roll, too?”

“Looks like you’ve built up quite an appetite today!” she responded cheerfully, placing a roll on a plate for Jessa.

Jessa stabbed open the pastry lid of her pie to let the steam out. She noticed Flynn looking over at her plate.

“Is that going to be enough food for you, Flynn?” Maggie asked.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” he said loudly. “I’m not overly hungry.”

He took another bite of his apple and chewed slowly.

“Well, if you change your mind,” said Jessa, “I don’t think I’ll manage this sandwich.”

“Oh,” he hesitated. “Really?”

“Yeah. It looked really good, with this big thick cheddar slice in, and the roll looked nice and soft, but I had eyes bigger than my belly.” She scooted the plate over towards him. “Here, why don’t you take it? If you want it, I mean. I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

“Yeah. Okay,” he said. “If you really don’t want it.”

Jessa and Maggie shared a subtle smile.

But it wasn’t subtle enough. Flynn looked mortified.

Without a word, he took a bite, then pulled a textbook from his bag and put his head forward to read.

#

Jessa walked out of school with Maggie, whose entire family were waiting outside to take her to The Pizza Shack for a special first-day-of-school dinner. They said their goodbyes and then Jessa, too, headed off toward home.

A wave of tiredness crashed over her, and she suddenly regretted not training herself to wake up earlier each morning in preparation for the new term at school. “I’ll try,” she’d said to her mother. And for the past week, she had tried. Sort of. She had, at least, set her alarm for 6:45. And every day it went off at 6:45. And then again at 6:55, 7:05, and 7:15, at which point Jessa had, every day, given up on the snooze button and slept in until ten.

She trudged out of her daydream about bedtime and noticed up ahead a familiar yellow and blue polo shirt.

“Flynn!” she called out to him, but he couldn’t hear her over the music in his headphones. She jogged to catch up with him and tapped his arm.

“Oh, hi, Jessa.”

“Hi.”

“How’s it going?”

“Fine thanks. Look, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you at lunch.”

“It was nothing,” he shook his head.

“I really didn’t mean to make you feel weird.”

“I know you were just trying to be nice, but honestly? Yeah, it made me feel weird. I just don’t want everyone to think that I’m like a…” he trailed off.

“Like a what?”

“I don’t know. Everyone at Winsbury has loads of money. I don’t want everyone to think I’m poor.”

“Nobody thinks you’re poor.”

“‘course they do. My clothes aren’t new; my mum cuts my hair… I know what I look like. And usually it doesn’t bother me because none of that stuff is important anyway, but sometimes it makes me feel rubbish. I especially don’t want my friends to feel sorry for me.”

“It’s hard not to feel sorry for people, though.”

“I guess,” he shrugged. “But being treated like a charity case makes me feel really pathetic.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think of it that way. I never thought of you as a charity case. I actually think you’re pretty cool. And I like your clothes. And I like your doofy haircut.”

He laughed.

“I’m serious!” she said.

“Okay,” he smiled.

“Friends?”

“Yeah, friends.”

“Oh hey, this is where I turn off. I live down the road here.”

“Cool. I live up that way,” he pointed in the opposite direction.

“See you at school tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah, see you!” he waved.

“Wait, Jessa!”

“Yeah?” she spun around.

“I forgot to say thanks. For the sandwich. I did appreciate it,” he gave her a thumbs up of gratitude.

She smiled and gave him an exaggerated thumbs up in return.