The final day of WinterFest was the last day of term, two days before Christmas, and the first-years had their final PSE lesson.

“Most of your holiday assignments can be found here on your student intranet accounts.” Mr Fletcher’s finger scanned through pages on his tablet. “And you have printed copies of the science questions, yes? I’m not sure why the science department avoids this technology. You’d think they’d be into it, wouldn’t you?” he wondered aloud.

“Maybe it’s that the science teachers are such old fogeys that they don’t know how to upload to the intranet,” Gray called out from the back of the room.

Graham Townsend knew how to make the class laugh. His shaggy highlighted hair flopped down in front of his face and he emphatically ran his hand through it to brush it away from his eyes.

He does that a lot, Jessa thought. She wondered if he did it deliberately.

“So how are you all feeling about your first semester at Winsbury, now that it’s coming to an end?” Mr Fletcher said, casually leaning against his desk. “Was it more difficult than you anticipated? Is there more homework than you expected? Come on, anything you want to share?”

“Too much homework!” Gray called out.

“Yeah, bit too much,” Eli agreed.

Maggie raised her hand. “I think we get a very appropriate amount of homework.”

“Yeah but I have band practice, like, three times a week,” Gray droned. “And I have an unlimited cinema pass so I have to go at least twice a week to make it worthwhile. It adds up, y’know?”

“That does sound tough, Gray,” Maggie looked annoyed. “Maybe you should transfer to Northgate Comprehensive; I hear they get plenty of downtime—”

“All right!” Mr Fletcher clapped his hands together loudly. “Anyone else?

“I’ve enjoyed it,” said Jessa.

“Me too,” said the wispy voice of Annora Huff. “I love Parapsych Skills lessons.”

A wave of “mmhmms” and “yeahs” rippled throughout the room.

“Well, I personally don’t think the parapsych labs have been very useful,” Cecily sneered.

“Why do you say that, Cecily?” the teacher asked.

“It’s all so basic,” she drawled. “When do we learn the real stuff?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Mr Fletcher began politely, “but this is “real stuff.” It’s just foundational. You have to start small and practice and get stronger. So actually, while we’re thinking about this, let’s review a few things. Here’s a nice easy question: who can tell me what a Level 1 Parapsych is?”

“Children are Level 1,” said Tonia.

“Correct,” Mr Fletcher responded. “Children, or perhaps adults who went to a parapsych school that wasn’t as involved as Winsbury, and as such didn’t learn effectively how to utilise their skills. Or maybe an adult who just doesn’t use their skills much and falls out of practice. Basically, it’s when someone has a hint of parapsychological ability but lacks control over it. So what’s Level 2?”

“A lot of people are Level 2, right?” said Eli Cannon. “Uni students, adult parapsychs who practice a lot.” Cecily turned to shoot him a glare. It looked like she mouthed “teacher’s pet” at him, but Jessa couldn’t quite tell.

“You’re exactly right, Eli,” the teacher replied. “When you arrive at Winsbury, you’re all Level 1, whether you like it or not. But by the time you leave, you’ll almost definitely be Level 2. Our curriculum is more intensive than most schools, which I’m sure you’ve noticed. When you graduate from Winsbury many of you might take places at a standard University or a workplace apprenticeship, but you might even be Level 2 Plus, which makes you a prime candidate for further parapsych study. So what’s Level 3?”

“It’s like when people have more than one parability,” Flynn answered.

“Yes, exactly. It’s also when people use their ability directly in their job in a way that requires a lot of precision. Sometimes we call Level 3s ‘Professional Parapsychs.’ For example, psychiatrists who use telepathy in treatments, or doctors who use advanced telekinesis in microsurgery. Or psych vets who read animals. Or professors of parapsychism, even. So to return to Cecily’s concern,” he said, turning back to face her, “I’d like to remind you all that a parapsych is only as good as their practice. You wouldn’t run a marathon without training first, would you? This school is here to teach you a consistency and precision that you don’t currently have.”

“Who are you to say how consistent or precise I am?” Cecily raised her carefully preened eyebrows. “You’re just a history teacher.”

He didn’t raise his voice even a little. “Cecily, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t speak to me like that. I apologise if I offended you or if you interpreted my words as insulting. But the fact of the matter is, biologically and psychologically speaking, you and your classmates are low-level parapsychs. That’s just how it is.”

“What are you even talking about?” she retorted. “Who are you to question my parapsych skills? You don’t know anything about me or what I’m capable of! Just because your parapsychism is so weak that you had to settle to be some crappy ponce history teacher doesn’t mean the rest of us should. You don’t even know me!”

The entire class looked at Cecily. She knew she’d gone too far.

Slowly, the students turned back to the teacher, anxious to see how he responded.

He waited.

She said nothing.

He picked up his tablet and pressed on the screen, in gentle taps and swirls that showed the students he was typing. The familiar ding of a sent message broke through the quiet tension in the room, followed shortly by the dong of a received reply.

“Miss Graves,” he finally said, looking up from the device. “Please gather your things. Mrs Hoopey is on her way here. She will escort you to your locker and you will empty it.”

The first-years looked at him, wide-eyed.

“But wait—” she tried to say.

“No,” he interrupted.

Mrs Hoopey arrived at the door.

“Thank you, Miss Graves,” said Mr Fletcher. “You are dismissed.”

#

The usual purple and yellow of the cafeteria had been adorned with balloons and silver and gold streamers that hung down from the ceiling. At every place-setting was a Christmas cracker, which the students had great fun pulling open to reveal inside the silly toys, slips of paper with terrible jokes printed on, and the classic tissue-paper crowns that they all wore so proudly.

Of course, Cecily’s suspension was the talk of the whole school.

“I remember when Sally Potters got expelled in third-year, it was so exciting.”

“I’ve never heard of someone talking to a teacher like that,” said someone else.

“And a first-year? Wow.”

Jessa, Maggie and Flynn joined the line for the buffet and the mutterings continued around them.

“I wonder if she’ll be back next semester.”

“I bet she’ll be expelled for good.”

“What kind of school will she end up at, after something like this?”

“I’m glad she finally got her comeuppance,” said Jessa. “She had no right to talk to him like that.”

“I doubt she’s even going to learn from a suspension, though,” Flynn wondered. “Especially as it’s the last day of term. She’s probably just at home now enjoying an extra day of the Christmas holiday.”

“Damn, I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Jessa replied. “The thought of Cecily just chilling at home right now makes me feel a bit sick.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll just have to wait and find out,” said Maggie. “Hungry, Flynn?” she changed the subject as Flynn piled at least six roasted parsnips onto his plate.

“Oh yeah, Christmas dinner is my favourite!” he said, moving on to deposit a heaving dollop of stuffing onto the plate in the best way it would fit.

“Don’t overdo it, though,” Maggie warned. “You’ll be having another Christmas dinner in two days, remember.”

“Nah, I don’t think we’re having one this year,” he said.

“How come?”

“My mum has to work late on Christmas Eve, and she won’t have any time to go shopping for dinner stuff. It’s fine, though. At least I get to have some here!” He tried to sound cheerful, but he avoided eye contact the way he always did when he was upset.

“Let’s make sure this one counts, then. Excuse me, Agnes,” Maggie addressed the server, “can we please have three pieces of Christmas pudding, three slices of chocolate log, and three bowls of trifle? This one’s on me, guys.”

Mrs Hoopey’s voice came in through the PA system, quieting the festive music for a moment. “Good afternoon, students!” she chirped. “When the bell rings at 2 pm, please make your way to the main hall for an afternoon of festive fun! First, we’ll have the Big Quiz, so get yourself organised into teams of five or six! And then we’ll cheer on the fourth and fifth-year participants in our Parapsych Games! And of course—everybody’s favourite—the staff performance!”

The whole cafeteria erupted into cheer. Jessa had not yet witnessed the annual staff performance, but she’d heard legendary tales of the teachers’ song and dance numbers.

During lunch, some of Emmeline Victor’s friends put on a charity bake sale where they sold homemade Christmassy treats like mince pies and fig rolls and Linzer tarts. As if their triple-pudding medley wasn’t enough, Jessa couldn’t resist buying a selection of treats to share with her friends.

At the end of the afternoon, the fifth-years announced that the bake sale had raised over £650, which would go to Emmeline and her family. Jessa looked around the room at the students as they cheered Emmeline’s name in her honour, and for the first time, she felt genuinely proud to be a Winsbury student.

#

“How was your last day of term?” Mrs Baxter asked as her daughter wiggled out of her outdoor layers. Jessa regaled her mother with tales of Hugo Fletcher suspending Cecily, and the Christmas lunch, which she said was good but not as nearly as good as a home-cooked one, which Mrs Baxter was glad to hear. Jessa continued chatting away about how her team didn’t do very well in the quiz, even though Tonia was surprisingly good in the sport round. How the fourth-year students were really good at parapsych skills and that Timothy Gregson won the trophy with his auto-writing performance and how he already has a scholarship to a top American university, and how the teacher’s performance was amazing and how Mr Fletcher played a prince in the comedy play they put on, and how…

“It sounds like you’ve had a good day,” said Mrs Baxter.

“It was so fun,” Jessa beamed.

“Poor Flynn, though, not getting a real Christmas dinner,” Mrs Baxter said thoughtfully.

“I know,” Jessa replied. “He said he was all right with it, but I can tell he wasn’t really.”

“I have an idea. Let’s invite him and his mum here.”

“Seriously? You’re the best, Mum.” Jessa initiated a hug with her mother for the first time in a long while.

Jessa ran to the phone and activated the voice line to call him on their telephone, as he didn’t have a videocom system. His mother gratefully accepted the invitation and offered to bring mince pies, which of course, the Baxters accepted, because they couldn’t possibly turn down mince pies.

It would be the best Baxter Christmas yet.