I had mentally prepared for a strange class.
But this…
This was an ecosystem.
A petri dish of chaos disguised as homeroom.
One boy in the back had a live chicken on his desk.
Another girl was wearing sunglasses indoors, furiously scribbling what looked like conspiracy theories involving cafeteria meat.
And the guy at the window—who hadn't blinked in the last five minutes—was either in a deep meditative trance… or rebooting.
"I call dibs on your eraser if you spontaneously combust," Blake said beside me.
I turned to him slowly.
"What?"
"It's a respect thing. You know, like how pirates claim treasure after battle."
I didn't even have the energy to respond.
Blake Fletcher was not just in my class. He was my desk partner.
And by some demonic seating arrangement, he had immediate and unrestricted access to my personal space.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked cheerfully. "I didn't. I dreamt of a kangaroo that told me I'm too emotionally available."
I stared at the front board.
There was no teacher yet.
Only a half-erased sentence: "Silence is golden, but duct tape is silver."
"I think that's supposed to be motivational," Blake said, munching on a stick of celery.
"Why are you eating celery at 8:03 a.m.?"
"It's for stealth."
I blinked. "Stealth?"
"You can't sneak up on people with crunchy snacks, Peter. That's amateur."
I exhaled slowly, like a man bracing for a hurricane while clinging to a fence post.
To be fair—I had known what I was getting into.
I knew I was boring.
I had the sense of humor of wet cement, and a social presence that could kill a houseplant.
That's why I chose Greenville.
I wanted to change.
But I didn't expect the universe to respond with a classmate who once claimed cows staged a coup.
"Hey," Blake whispered. "If we get homework today, I'll trade you answers for half of your soul."
I looked at him.
He grinned.
I looked away.
This school was already more intense than I imagined.
And we were only seven minutes into the day.
Bam!!
While I was busy accepting my fate in this school, a teacher suddenly stormed in like a man who had just lost a game of chess to a goat.
He was wearing a mustard-yellow sweater that said "I'm silently correcting your grammar", and he slammed his briefcase onto the desk like it owed him rent.
"Alright, squirrels," he barked. "Settle down before I alphabetize your blood types."
I sat up straight.
This was new.
"I said settle!" he shouted again, pointing a whiteboard marker like a magic wand of mild violence. "You—no more juggling! And you—put the chicken in your bag or I will grade it instead of you!"
The class fell into a strange kind of stillness—less "orderly" and more "strategic compliance."
"Now," the teacher said, brushing off his sleeves, "before we begin today's curriculum—which includes pain, disappointment, and a surprise quiz—you should all be aware that we have a new transfer student joining us."
My curiosity flickered.
Another poor soul dragged into this circus? Bold.
"She's just transferred here from some international secret institution that apparently doesn't exist anymore," he added with a shrug. "Make of that what you will."
The door opened.
And that's when I saw her.
She walked in with the kind of posture usually reserved for royalty or drama club presidents.
Everything about her—her gait, her calm gaze, the precision of her steps—radiated control. Poise. Grace.
She wore the Greenville uniform like it was tailored by MI6.
Her hair was tied in a sleek ponytail, her expression unreadable, her stride unwavering.
I stared.
Something short-circuited in my brain.
Was this love?
It couldn't be. I didn't believe in love at first sight.
And yet there I was, hopelessly processing an emotion that felt suspiciously like an attack.
She stopped in front of the class, faced us, and then turned to the teacher.
"Permission to introduce myself, sir?" she said, voice crisp.
"Granted. Just don't monologue."
She turned to the class, chin high.
"Greetings," she said. "I am Rosaline Nox, direct descendant of the greatest secret agent the world has ever known. I am here to carry on his legacy through education, observation… and subtle combat readiness."
I blinked.
Blake let out a quiet "whoa."
Somewhere, a chair squeaked in confusion.
"I was trained in five forms of self-defense before I turned ten," she continued. "I know thirteen uses for a plastic spoon, and I can identify poison by smell. Mostly."
I closed my eyes.
And cursed myself, bitterly.
This was what I got for catching feelings.
I didn't fall in love with a poet. Or a pianist. Or even someone vaguely reasonable.
No.
I fell for a girl who believed she was the spiritual heir to James Bond's diary.
"Please be aware," Rosaline added, "that I'm watching you all. Especially you."
She pointed directly at the chicken.
It clucked.
The class applauded.
I buried my face in my notebook.
It was going to be a long year.
And of course, am currently in Year 9 so I still have a long road ahead of me before I leave this hell hole.
"Ok good introduction, go take your seat over there"
"As you command sir"
Not long after, our teacher pointed out her seat for her to go seat while she replied to him like as if she was in a military drill.
But just when I thought this phase in my life is over, fate decided to pull the most mischievous prank on me by mysteriously making me to stand out amongst the crowd to the extent of catching Rosaline's attention.
Luckily, am quite skilled in secretly observing people so I discovered that Rosaline was looking my way while going to her seat which led me to bury my face even deeper into the book in hopes of not giving birth to curiosity towards me in her.
That is the last thing I want right now.
Definitely the last thing.