Chantelle Parsons walked up to the nearest teacher she could find.
“Excuse me, Miss, my name is Chantelle. I’m new here next term.”
The woman turned to face her and Chantelle saw, to her relief, what appeared to be a kind, benevolent face smiling down at her. A little like Professor McGonogal, she thought.
“Chantelle who, dear?”
“Parsons. Chantelle Parsons.”
“I must just check with the headmaster. Please come with me.”
Chantelle followed the teacher into the main building and down a long, dark passage. She was fourteen years old and scared.
At her old school she had been quite unpopular, what with the braces and the glasses and general social awkwardness.
She was hoping, praying that this school would be different, that she would make friends. That her drunk, crazy mother wouldn’t show up at parent’s evenings and concerts and embarrass her.
The teacher led her into the strangest office she had ever seen, the whole thing decorated in bright colors and movie posters.
The headmaster, who looked only a little older than Chantelle herself, smiled up at her from his laptop.
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