Heartsteel

reality

Magnolia Secondary School is a sub-average high school, but that's likely because it doesn't have much competition in the decently average city of Rothwood.

I stare vacantly at the three-story building from where I'm seated in my dad's matted black range rover: brick walls the colour of russet potatoes; every glass window was grimy, nontransparent; scattered pieces of trash partially concealed by slim tree trunks and oddly placed rocks.

Yeah, Magnolia doesn't have much going for it on its exterior, and it's exterior is somehow worse: trash in random lockers and desks; foul stench infecting every washroom; a myriad of isolated acts of graffiti on every floor. When it comes to Magnolia, there's no beauty outside, or inside.

But the majority still stick around here since the only other high school in the city was the prestigious, albeit exorbitant, Reamirora Collegiate Institute — the name alone screams 'above average and we know it'. Its costly tuition isn't the only downside of the school though, because to get to Reamirora you had to be willing to either travel to and back, or move to the other side of this city. Southside Rothwood(Bloom Hills) wasn't a stressful area to live in at all, if you didn't mind paying at least 2,500 dollars a month in rent regardless of what kind of residence you lived in.

If that wasn't up your alley (or your savings account), then your only other options were to commute either forty-five minutes left to Kitchener, or right to Toronto. Otherwise just move to another city entirely.

An abysmal, upbeat country tune cuts off my peaceful, vacant staring at Magnolia.

"Yeah, Phoebe, so what went down?" dad says into his phone.

Since we pulled into school property he's been in a texting frenzy with his coworker, Phoebe 'last name a secret in case I try to look it up'. Like her, dad's a bodyguard and has been since before I was born, but that's literally all I know about their job. Apparently none of them are allowed to discuss the details about their work with anyone except other coworkers. Somehow their texting suddenly turned into a phone call that's taking minutes way too long.

I groan loud enough for him to hear me, then wrench the passenger seat door open when he gestures for a 'minute' and continues to listen intently to what Phoebe's saying on the other end. On the outside of the vehicle, I instantly miss the cool breeze of the rover's air conditioning when I step onto the crunchy gravel of Magnolia's rear parking lot, right into the cloudless sky and blazing sun. I keep my hoodie on despite it, and I'm reluctant to take it off.

Six weeks ago, about a quarter of Magnolia's population saw me collapse in the gym before dance practice was about to start. At some point later, when I was conscious enough but not fully, about half the school witnessed me being wheeled through the hallways on a stretcher, paramedics at my side moving as fast as they could. By now, for sure the entire student body and staff had heard about Suzie Amana blacking out all of a sudden on a wednesday afternoon.

Who knows what kind of rumours are swirling around. Overdose? Was she popping ketamine, or what? Is she anorexic or something? Attempt at a diet gone wrong? Who knows how everyone will look at me now. What if she passes out again? Why's she moving so slow? Is her brain fried?

For now, my purple fleece hoodie is my cloak. Can't see me, can't talk about me.

Dad's still on the phone. With the speed of a turtle, I yank the passenger door open again and poke my head in.

"I'll go in alone," I bluff. No way am I going inside the lion's den by myself when I can't even move faster than a snail.

"No no no, let's go," dad sputters. "Phoebe, I gotta go. I call you later. Yeah, I'll tell her you said 'hi'."