The director enters the grand hall with all the gravity and authority his status requires. Even Blake, in the midst of his provocation, falls silent immediately, as do all the others present. Tranquility spreads like a wave, muffling even the quietest murmurs, as this elderly-looking man with white hair and beard, dressed in a formal suit, walks through the space with immeasurable dignity.
I watch the scene unfold, bored by its predictability. I know the script of this ceremony as if I had written it myself - and in a way, I did, in my mind filled with imagination. The director ascends the stage, preparing for the speech that will echo the same clichés that inaugurate every school year. My eyelids become heavy; the sound of his voice is a balm inviting rest.
---
The vigorous applause marking the end of the speech awakens me from my unintentional nap. I shrink discreetly and am grateful for having chosen a place at the back of the room, where my minutes of drowsiness went unnoticed.
At the movement of the other students, eager to discover their classes, I prepare to join them when I feel a firm pressure on my shoulder and hear a cold voice that makes my heart jump. "Sleeping through the director's speech, right on the first day of school… You're either very brave or a complete idiot, you know?"
The familiar voice hits me with a dose of reality; there is no escape. I was in Mrs. Lily's sights.
Lizy Joy, the entity who had taken the form of an Asian-looking teacher, with ebony-colored hair and eyes. Her preceding fame gave her the aura of a mythological figure; she was the type who made the ground tremble when she stepped and the students silenced their rebellious whispers with a simple look. Her presence in this academy was the guarantee that class A-1 would have discipline, even if it was discipline through fear.
"Hi," a pathetic retort, but it was all I could muster under the weight of her scrutiny.
"Hi, are you okay? Have you woken up today or will you need to take 10 laps around the entire academy campus to wake up?" Lizy replied, her tone of mockery as sharp as a blade.
10 laps? The suggestion was cruel, a reminder that she would make no concessions, calling her a witch seemed appropriate to me—but only in thought, of course.
"I don't think I'll need to," I murmured, my hand passing over the back of my neck in a characteristic gesture of discomfort, my smile as devoid of humor as a sunless day.
In the whirlwind of students swallowing the scene, I, Dean, remained a detached spectator. Some murmurs from students, almost identical to me in their role as extras in this play called academy, floated in the wind like disposable leaves, not deserving a second glance from me. But then, like a piercing whisper that pierces the bottom of each noisy room, came the voices of Ellie and Blake, the words sharpened with the precision of a social dagger.
The low but clearly indiscreet conversation between Ellie and Blake does not escape me. It's the kind of comment that makes cynicism grow in my smile.
"These are nobodies, Blake. People that I wonder what they're doing in this academy," Ellie mocked after watching my little clash with Mrs. Lily.
"Yes, I even get annoyed that he's in the academy with us," Blake added, always adorable in his unfounded sense of superiority.
Ah, my lovely creations, embroidering my day with the fine thread of aristocratic contempt. "You're speaking very softly, you know? Why don't you speak louder?" I mock, but I keep the volume so that only those with more attuned ears can hear me. It's an art to maintain composure while irritation seeks space to manifest itself.
Lizy sighed, possibly realizing that the scene was already attracting more attention than it should. "I think you better wake up to life if you still want to continue in this academy, okay?" she pressed, waiting for an answer.
Damn. Did I really have to answer? Interacting would only prolong this agonizing exposure to the gazes of the creatures that made up the fauna of the academy. "Okay," is all I can offer.
"Great," she walks away with that final word, a sentence of irony and the unspoken promise that I am nothing more than a pawn in the hands of the powerful. Lizy walked towards the exit of the grand hall, and I knew that this would not be the last test on her part. Not even close.
A blush of shame touches my cheeks only slightly - being embarrassed on the first day was apparently a tradition of mine. Shrugging off the discomfort, I ignore the chatty duo and head to room A-1, scratching my head in a gesture that could well be read as nonchalance, but which, in truth, buries deeper the stigma of "Dean Carleone, the untamed."
Today, my schedule reserves a class with Mrs. Lily, and something tells me that the rest of the day could easily yield a comedy or a tragedy - or, knowing my days, the perfect mix of both.
---
There I was, Dean Carleone, standing in front of room A-1. The veterans seemed so know-it-all, pointing directions with an authority that only survivors of previous years in the academy possessed. My position in the academic ranking danced in my mind - 2540? 2042? Numbers that hung in two thousand and something. It really didn't matter; the abyss between me and the top was equally a scream into the void.
Upon entering the room, I find it filled with the would-be heroes of our student hagiography. Of course, even heroes need to learn something before they save worlds, or so tradition says. Me? I just wanted to remain incognito, which I was clearly failing at gloriously. I estimated that my delay had been a mix of poor guidance and dragged steps of procrastination.
"Okay, I must have gotten lost on the way to take so long to get here," I murmur to myself, covering my general impression of disdain.
Looking for a corner where I could hide, my eyes cross with the judgmental looks of my classmates, each one seems to mentally scream: "Don't you dare sit here". "You could disguise a little better," I think. No, I'm definitely not a carrier of anything contagious, except perhaps, irony and a reticent charm.
I sigh, weighing every gram of disdain thrown in my direction, and head to the last available bench, strategically located next to an inviting window. "Ideal for escaping… if escaping were an option."
As I scan the room, my eyes inevitably wander over the board of main characters. But the idea of crossing glances and being misunderstood makes me roll my eyes inwardly. "No, not today. Not now," I think, determined not to be labeled as the class pervert even before the first bell.
Now, I come across Chloe Sunshine, an interesting figure who stands out as someone who doesn't want to draw attention, but fails miserably. Greed is her middle name, and it's evident that she has already calculated the odds of all possible and impossible deals in this room. Reserved, but strangely, always surrounded by people. I would consider her a soulmate if her greed for power wasn't so evident, almost tangible.
Her black hair falls in a way that seems casual, but which, I'm sure, was meticulously arranged to appear unpretentious. And those eyes, a strangely captivating purple, observe everything with a cold calculation too adult for someone our age. Yes, there's a story there, a painful past that propelled her to this early and incisive maturity. "Story for another time," I repeat in my mind. I, Dean Carleone, know how to recognize a potential ally, or at the very least, a worthy adversary. But none of these ties or possibilities matter now, in the midst of our first act in this academy of intrigue and learning.
For now, I settle into the chair, trying to mentally prepare for what will come next. It's not a question of if, but when Chloe will decide that I am useful for her schemes and plots. Until then, my performance will be of disinterest. After all, it's the first day; there's still time to get to know the scene partners, find out who's worth watching and who's better kept at a distance.
The grand finale for a cinematically chaotic first day: the entrance of the protagonists—and there I am, an invited witness to this unprepared spectacle.
Blake enters the room with a tone of voice that never tried to reach discretion. "You said it was that way and that's why we took so long to get here," and he grumbles like someone who had his puppet strings tangled.
The retorting Ellie, responsible for the navigation error, responds in a tone as loaded as her emotions. "Shut up, it wasn't my fault. It was that poorly made map that portrayed the whole school wrong," and her gaze over the class is as penetrating as the thorns on a rose bush.
The grandstand of student drama was set up and here I was, Dean, a spectator armed with satire as my lens of vision. I watch as little princess Ellie tries to orient herself on this human chessboard, as lost as an old-fashioned princess facing a smartphone. The attachment I feel for her? A well-kept secret behind my facade of indifference: it's between the lines of her tragic trajectory that I feel a strange comfort.
Sam found a place in the sun, taking with him Blake's entourage of arrogance and Ellie's coated naivety. They sit with the pomp of those who expect trophies just for being present. Relief. Strategic distance is essential, especially when your favorite pastime is to watch impending disasters from a box seat.
And then, as if a spotlight fell on the least likely figure, there she was, Diana. The blonde who could easily confuse a calculus class with a queue for tea with the Queen. An early romance with Sam, as doomed to failure as a Monday diet, had my fingers intertwined in anticipation. In the end, the dynamics between her, Chloe, and Ellie would be my lemon pie - sour and sweet in just the right measure.
Don't get me wrong; the emotional chaos that would follow was not my fault. Well, actually it was, but who's counting? The threads I pulled to intertwine their paths were as invisible as my enthusiasm for Monday mornings.
"Am I really a psychopath?" The idea makes me laugh to myself. But in the opera of this academy, psychopathy is as common as a dog's bark. It's the survival of the craftiest, and by God, may I always be the craftiest - the invisible maestro who whispers in the curtains and decides who dances with whom at the final ball.
Preparing for what promises to be an inaugural act worthy of a prime time soap opera, I lean back in the chair and twirl a pen between my fingers. There's a game unfolding, and Dean Carleone never steps onto the field to lose. The real question is: how far am I willing to go to ensure that the academy's spectacle unfolds according to my script?
After all, the first day is just the trailer for the movie…
---
The voice that cuts the tension in the room is like the gong of a boxing round I would rather postpone. Mrs. Lizy, the undisputed authority, bursts into the room like an Antarctic cold gale. "I see that everyone is already here; so, let me introduce myself without further ado," her voice leaves no room for counterpoints - Lizy stands in front of the class, with a paper in hand that seems to contain the fate of each student.
"I am Lizy Joy, a rank A awakener and your teacher for the next three years in this academy." The words sound like solemn vows, more promises of challenges than mere introductions. One can almost hear the stomachs churning in unison - fear and respect intertwined in her figure.
My escape strategy is fruitless. Trying to hide from Lizy is like trying to deceive gravity; useless and foolish. With a simple adjustment of posture, she sees through my attempts at invisibility.
Our gaze crosses, a spark between steel and flint, and there I am, marked. "I'm going to do a quick roll call, so I know everyone's name and, consequently, you know your classmates' names." She doesn't expect recognition, her expectations are of obedience.
"I'm going to call in descending order, respectively linked to your position in the academy…" Lizy scrutinized the list with agile eyes and, after a brief moment that seemed like an eternity, found the start of her count. "Dean Carleone. Ranked: 2045."
Unsurprisingly, I'm the first - but why wouldn't I be? There is no order that imprisons the anarchic nature that defines me. "I'm here," I declare, raising my hand, injecting a dose of controlled disdain into my voice. For a moment, our gazes intertwine again; and although I expected a spark of disapproval, I find only the reflection of the professionalism I expected from someone of her caliber.
As the names of the main characters are called, the ranking speaks louder than their own voices. Chloe Sunshine, the very personification of cunning, responds with a mere raising of hands - eloquent in the economy of gestures.
"Ellie Stormhold. Ranked: 4." Her determination is almost tangible in the air, vibrating like a tensioned string.
And then Diana, impassive and serene, releases a "Here." that seems to float above the intensity of the room.
"Hm, Blake Nightshade?" Blake's indifference manifests itself, no more than a hand rising in an ocean of insignificances.
"And finally. Sam Solomons." His voice overflows with the sincerity that would be his trademark.
With the roll call completed, Lizy Joy met the main cast, as if she were evaluating the pieces on a chessboard before a chess game. Her mind, no doubt, already architecting plans that would sculpt us, reform or break us. And it is exactly in this interlude of the routine of introductions that I anticipate the beginning of our true trials.
This is the pre-battle scene, where the tension stretches to the breaking point, where we learn who we are and what we are made of under the fierce scrutiny of Mrs. Lizy - where the real game begins. The activities that would follow would certainly not be for the faint of heart or mind; they would be designed to expose and refine, and I, by the next curtains that would rise, would be ready to play my role, whatever it may be.